Globe Cup Dispatch: Element Five (Tales Of A Haggis Virgin)

Contributor Andrew Post is traveling in the U.K and Ireland for the next two weeks covering the World Cup and his trip for TheExpeditioner.com. This week he’s in North East England before heading to Dublin, then on to Scotland. Minus any hooligan-related incidents, Andrew will be checking in with dispatches along the way. God help him.

By Andrew Post

Roaming the globe is constantly a studying expertise. Even Captain Cook would tell you that there’s constantly some thing new a traveler can discover. He may also tell you (as he rubbed the back of his head) that each interaction in between a foreigner and a local is an opportunity for a fatal faux pas.

In my wanderings, I have made every single attempt to read up on the customs, traditions, and history of a locale prior to I so much as set foot in it. I am meticulous in my conduct, assiduous in my behavior, polite in word and deed, so that I might by no means offend or alienate the inhabitants of the locations I go to. I am the pinnacle of etiquette and an example of anti-ethnocentrism to the world.

If you believed the above paragraph, I have a bridge to sell you.

I goof up all the time, everywhere I go. There are some standards of politeness I can’t even get ideal in my own country, let alone abroad in this big, amazing world. There had been two especially noteworthy “whoops” moments which occurred during my three-day sojourn in Edinburgh, Scotland, both of which I intend to warn you against.

To Scotland By Rail

The train ride to Edinburgh from Newcastle, Northern England, was absolutely stunning. The tracks came down correct beside the cliffs overhanging the stormy, grey North Sea. Breakers tossed and rolled over black rocks. Miles of open country flew by, quintessential in their Britishness: forests which Robin Hood wouldn’t have felt like an idiot hiding out in hedgerows and fields that would’ve had Tom Hanks thinking, “It’s World War II documentary time.” Sheep pastures, herds of Black Angus, and a few Clydesdale horses completed the agrarian scene. Once in Scottish territory, the terrain became hillier, and the seas became wilder and rougher, even although the skies had been clearing. Sail-surfers swooped by means of the breakers, bushes and trees grew wilder in the pastures. We were in Celtic territory: William Wallace, steam power, whisky distilling, shipbuilding, philosophy, broadswords, tartan, and deep-fried Mars Bars.

Upon emerging from Waverley Station in central Edinburgh, we were instantly gobsmacked by the sight of this attractive city. I was weirdly reminded of Eastern Europe — there had been so a lot of minarets, spires, monuments, castles, clock towers, and other antiquarian edifices that my eye didn’t know where to leap to next. Jeff, my Canadian travel partner, and I began to wander down Princes Street toward our hostel, gazing around in wonderment. Statues to people today we’d never ever heard of loomed over the sidewalk. Fields of green grass and towering trees sprouted from the floor of the Princes Street Gardens, a lovely city park.

People today of every single size, shape, color and description crowded around us: Scots, English, Irish, Europeans, Americans, Canadians, Africans, Chinese, Japanese, Arabs, and a lot more. Girls of jaw-dropping beauty dressed to the nines sauntered along the rows of shops. Families of five, chattering excitedly, buzzed to and fro like bees. And everywhere the sound of bagpipes filled the air.No sooner would the last piper fade out of range than an additional on the next block would take up the slack.

The sun shone warm above us, and the breeze blew cool from the Firth of Forth, the enormous bay upon whose southern shore Edinburgh sits. As we neared the West End, a terrific explosion cleaved the air, and the ground shook as though hit with a titan fist. We looked up and to the left, past the flourishing canopies of the enormous trees of the park, to the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, and saw smoke issuing from the squat barrel of a gun. They’d fired the 1 o’clock cannon. Jeff and I looked at every other, grinning. We’d arrived at a unique location.

Immediately after some creative finagling of the map and a slight quarrel about cardinal directions, Jeff and I found ourselves in the lobby of our hostel on Belford Street, in the quiet and green West End of Edinburgh. The hostel itself was a converted church, a palatial developing of dark stone, its massive windows glaring over the street like watchful eyes, its steeple warring for prominence with the rest of Edinburgh’s skyline. We’d been warned what to expect the reality of it took our breath away. The rooms had no ceilings. We had four uncomplicated walls, a carpeted floor, and a bunk every above our heads the vault of the church’s vast ceiling spread itself in glory, sunlight streaming in by means of the enormous west window, falling on our faces like a benediction from God.

Storming The Castle

Our initial stop was Edinburgh Castle. After a dizzying walk up the hill and a couple of crooked staircases, we were standing at the entrance to a fortress captured only as soon as in its centuries-lengthy history, and then only by stealth. Conquering it in the modern day is a matter of money and not may: it price us every £14 to get in. We got a lot for the cost of admission, on the other hand. We initial entered the Scottish Military Museum, where the praises of some of the country’s doughtiest heroes are sung. Enormous paintings festooned the walls, commemorating the Battle of Camperdown in 1797, and the fierce fighting at the Château d’Hougoumont throughout the Battle of Waterloo. Outside, there was fencing practice in the west courtyard, where a nearby school was exhibiting the Scots’ prowess with a broadsword. The fencing master was a fit 30-some thing man with stubble on his chin and a broad brogue, who narrated even as he parried and dodged.

“Light cut to the shoulder, nothin’ too significant.”

“Another light cut. He’ll be havin’ words w’ his tailor.”

The fencing match ended with a thrilling display of close-quarters grappling and wrestling, culminating with the master standing over his star pupil, sword raised to strike.

“And the match finishes with close play, which was nothing out of the ordinary in the kind of combat ye’d have back then.”

We applauded and walked on. Further up the sloping castle road was the Scottish War Memorial, inscribed with the names of every Scottish soldier to have perished in World War I, as well as the tomb of its unknown dead. This sacred location is not to be missed. Its walls are adorned with heartrending inscriptions hallowing the deeds and legacies of the nation’s most valiant.

Nearby, in their own separate display location, lay the Honours of the Kingdom, the Scottish Crown Jewels. The sword, scepter, and crown of the Scottish monarchs had been locked away from the public eyes in 1707 when the British dissolved the Scottish Parliament, and were only rediscovered a century later. They had been as bright and preserved as although they had been produced yesterday, the purple velvet of the crown vibrant, the scepter’s stone centerpiece refracting and reflecting the fluorescent light, the sword looking as although it might’ve inspired Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.

The view from the castle itself — as well as the guns and ramparts which line its walls — was absolutely nothing brief of breathtaking. The whole of the city, as well as the Firth of Forth, was visible, which includes Kirkcaldy to the northeast, the mountains to the north, and Arthur’s Seat to the southeast, an ancient sentinel’s post atop a skeletal volcano.

The Consumption Of Haggis, And The Digestion Of Scottish History

Famished by our climb, Jeff and I strolled down the Royal Mile and on to Rose Street, the shopping district of Edinburgh, to seek 1 of Scotland’s most notorious culinary creations. At a charming pub known as Dirty Dick’s, we ordered up a plate of haggis, neeps ‘n’ tatties (haggis with potatoes and turnips, all dunked in a whisky cream sauce). It was utterly delectable, not at all like I expected. Haggis, made of mostly visceral meats like intestines, stomachs, and brains, should have been revolting. Instead, the taste reminded me of liverwurst, but saltier and much less pungent. It was a heavy but satisfying meal.

Dirty Dick’s was also a whisky bar, so I took it upon myself to sample some of the most effective of Scottish distilling. I had the 10-year-old Ardbeg, a Scotch brewed in the Islay region, extraordinarily smoky and peaty in flavor really strong, but not at all unpleasant.

* * *

The next morning, Jeff and I made the climb up Calton Hill to view the Scottish National Monument, generally referred to as “Scotland’s Shame.” Edinburgh, it appears, was once known as “The Athens of the North” for its notable literary, philosophical and architectural achievements. In the early 1800’s, high on this reputation, the city council attempted to develop a copy of the Parthenon on Calton Hill on the eastern edge of the city center — except the income ran out, and half a Parthenon now stands there. It nonetheless afforded us a panoramic view of the city and a shady location to rest ourselves.

Down Calton Hill and across the supposedly cursed North Bridge, and we had been back in the High Street District. Right after a quick quit for lunch at Pizza Express (a somewhat high-toned boutique which serves fine wines and gourmet Italian pies), we penetrated the imposing façade of the Scottish National Museum. Despite the confusing floor plan (stairs to the six distinct floors split off in all directions, with hallways and exhibition rooms sprawled across the gallery in no particular order), we learned about everything from Scottish prehistory to industrial development in the latter twentieth century. Scotland has gone from being a volcanic wilderness to a nuclear and manufacturing powerhouse in just 400 million years.

It is Celtic, Not Gaelic

It was in the souvenir shop, when purchasing gifts for my parents and grandparents, that I produced the first of my cultural mistakes. This was ironic, seeing as I’d just come from the National Museum, and I ought to have been armed against such intellectual hiccups. I had selected a necklace decorated with a cross, and made the mistake of asking the bald, bespectacled shop owner the following question:

“Is that Gaelic or Celtic?”

The proprietor gave me a look over his glasses that would’ve produced any schoolboy wilt in his seat.

“Celtic,” he pronounced, pointedly.

“Ah, yes,” I said, soul bleaching, dignity withering. “I should’ve known.”

The man finished checking me out and handed my precious bag of purchases.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “And I’ll read up on the history.”

“Thank you,” the proprietor said, an amused smile on his face.

I walked out, kicking myself for not being additional familiar with Scottish history, and not knowing a Celtic cross when I saw one.

It was at ClamShell, a fish ‘n’ chip shop, where Jeff and I located the coveted prize, the golden horn, the factor we had come all the way to Edinburgh to obtain: deep-fried Mars Bars. For those unfamiliar with British confectionery, a Mars Bar is a chocolate bar, somewhat resembling a 3 Musketeers with caramel, or a Snickers bar without the nuts (in other words, delicious). In Scotland, where practically anything can be deep-fried and still known as food, Mars Bars are frequently dipped into boiling oil and served up like a hot snack. The result is an unholy union of sweet and savory, a gloppy chocolate bar coated in a thin crust, dripping with grease. It is a thousand-calorie heart attack waiting to occur, and it only expenses a couple of pounds. Resist if you believe you can.

Right after licking the greasy chocolate off our fingertips, Jeff and I returned to the hostel for a nap just before our planned expedition to the pubs. The light streaming by way of the enormous church windows beamed directly onto my bed. Feeling rather blessed, I put my hat over my eyes and catnapped.

So, An American And A Canadian Walk Into A Bar . . .

A couple of hours later, curried, combed, and brushed behind the ears, Jeff and I stepped out for a night in Edinburgh. We had been going to keep things tamer than we had in Dublin. We both knew how miserable traveling with a hangover would be, firsthand. A couple of drinks and we’d call it quits. We stopped very first at Mather’s Pub on Queensferry Street, but the atmosphere was cold and the seating nonexistent, so we finished our cider and went across the street to Ryan’s.

That was the second cultural mistake I made when in Scotland: I went to an pricey gastropub instead of a free home. Furthermore, there had been disturbing rumors that Ryan’s was the most high priced pub in Edinburgh. Even so, it turned out to be a marvelous encounter. The food was top-good quality, the whisky selection exemplary, and the beer comparatively diverse for a brewery-owned establishment. Additional importantly, they took care of us there. Immediately after forgetting Jeff’s order, the waitress came personally to our table to apologize (leaning on our shoulders like she was an old chum), giving us a different round absolutely free on the house, and refunding us the £10 for Jeff’s Sunday roast. The Tennents Scotch ale was smooth, hearty and satisfying the nachos were a small taste of property in a strange land and the television screens had been effortless to see. Jeff and I sat, drank and munched the night away as Brazil knocked the tobacco juice out of the Ivory Coast.

So far my batting average was deplorable. There had been five pretty girls per square foot in Dublin, and I hadn’t gotten anywhere with any of them. I was determined that this night would be distinctive. Fueled by nachos and a few pints of ale, I wiped my mouth and cast a probing eye around the pub. A brief-haired, freckled brunette at the bar caught my eye. She appeared to be alone, sipping a listless cider and looking like she was about to leave any second. I knocked back the rest of my pint, squared my shoulders and bellied up to the bar. I ordered the second of the 3 sorts of Scotch I hadn’t yet sampled: a 10-year-old Campbeltown single malt known as Springbank light, with overtones of vanilla, quite palatable and easy (the whisky, not the girl.) Then I nonchalantly looked to my side.

“You don’t look happy,” I said. It was a far cry from suave, but it was all I could believe of.

“I am pretty tired,” she said, with a smile and a German accent. “I have been up considering that 4 a.m.”

“What for?” I asked.

“I had to get on the plane to come here,” she said, revolving slowly on her bar stool until we had been facing the same direction.

“Where are you from?” I asked, and the rest was simple.

Her name was Kalya, and she had come from her hometown of Stuttgart to pay a visit to some pals in Scotland prior to going back to Germany for fall studies. She was tired and lonesome — she’d attempted to strike up a conversation with her hostel roommates, but the five American girls had snubbed her. Even the two German girls sitting at the table a couple of feet away from us hadn’t bothered to talk with her. I referred to as Jeff over and introduced him.

And so the three of us passed a happy two hours, drinking cider and discussing football and traveling. Items stood to get a bit awkward when the football match ended and Hart’s War came on, but Kalya and I just laughed it off and kept on drinking. I found her to be a delightful girl, full of smiles, with an great command of English, a prepared wit, and an engaging conversationalist. We parted at midnight and went our separate techniques.

Even if I didn’t get to initial base, I was happy that I’d had the chance to meet a foreign national in Edinburgh — especially 1 so pretty and freckly. I counted myself fortunate that I didn’t commit any cultural blunders in front of her, despite my track record. It was great to just sit down, take a quiet drink with two buddies, and make enjoyable of the French.

That’s all I actually wanted, honest.

Coming Next In Component Six: Scotland continued . . .

Read Component 1 Here

Part Two Here

Part 3 Here

And Part Four Here