"To The Haggis!"

This is a post I cooked up a couple of weeks ago, but I left it simmering on the back burner. It should be just as tasty - after all, it's about Haggis!

***

January 25 is the anniversary of the birth of Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns (25 January 1759 - 21 July 1796.) Every year, on or about the 25th, Scottish societies around the world celebrate with a Burns Night. The exact makeup of the night may vary, but certain elements are essential. To be a true Burns night, you must have a haggis, and a reading of Burn's poem celebrating this "chieftain o' the pudding race." Oh, and of course, whiskey is required!

This year was a special one.
Rabbie would have been 250 years old.

Robert Louis Stevenson said: "The mark of a Scot of all classes [is that] he ... remembers and cherishes the memory of his forebears, good or bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation."

I'm a proud descendant of the auld soil, from my maternal grandmother's side. My great-grandfather, John Dallas, emigrated from Scotland to the Scottish settlement in eastern Ohio. There, he met and married his first cousin, Jennie Dallas, a first generation American. I never met either of them, but have heard stories about them. Grandma Jennie lived to be 95 years old, and outlived Grandpa John, despite being 17 years older than he was. Apparently, she was a tough old lady and very strict, especially when it came to honoring the Sabbath day. My mother remembers Grandpa John dangling her on his knee, singing her Scottish nonsense songs.

Ever since I learned my family's history, and especially since I visited the village of Cawdor where my great-grandfather and his family lived, I have felt close to my Scottish heritage, and what better way to celebrate than to attend a Burns Night supper. This year, my uncle scored some tickets from a friend, and invited us to join them at the Caledonian Society event.

[Caledonia is the Latin name for Scotland. It dates from the days of the Roman invasion into Britannia, when the northern territory was inhabited by the Picts, a wild race of barbarians who painted themselves blue and fought naked against the Romans.]

The entry hall was decorated with flags of the various clans, and most people wore a bit of their family's colors. The truly dedicated men donned the full Scottish rig, including, of course, a kilt.


This gentleman relaxed the rules, being authentic below and contemporary above the waist.


But, most men followed the strict attire of a Scotsman, dressed to the nines.


The "man purse" in front is called a sporran. Since kilts don't have pockets, you need a bag like this to carry your wallet, keys, or other personal possessions. Everyday sporrans are made of leather, like the one below.


Dress sporrans are only suitable for special occasions. Traditionally, horsehair sporrans, like the one below, are worn with regimental attire or by pipers.


This sporran was the most unique of the evening. It is, in fact, an actual lynx. I was a bit disturbed by this one, especially when I saw it in use. The head is folded over the neck opening. Apparently, a sporran made of an animal pelt may be worn for any occasion.


I asked the owner of this sporran about its origin. He assured me the lynx lived a long and full life, with a wife and many children, and in the end, was happy to lay down his life for the cause. I wasn't convinced. I don't think I would want a sporran like this one.

However, I was tempted by this T-shirt:

If you can't read it, it says:

"Membership: $20.00
20 year Scotch: $68.99
Pub Crawling: $154.36
16 oz Clan Kilt: $650.00
Airfare to Glasgow: $1390.00
Invading England - Priceless!"

A Burns night supper usually opens with the Selkirk Grace:

Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;

But we hae meat, and we can eat,

Sae let the Lord be thankit.

There may be traditional dancing, performance on the pipe and drums, or readings of Burns' poetry, like "To a Mouse" or "To a Louse." There is usually a "Toast to the Lassies," which was rather crude in the days when women were not permitted to attend. Modern times have toned down the toasts, and these days, the "lassies" often have a chance to retaliate with their own "Toast to the Laddies."


The meal may include neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes), cock-a-leekie soup (chicken stock with leeks and potatoes), or other Scottish food. Every dinner is different, but the one essential course is the haggis. Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish. There are many recipes, but the main ingredients include various organ meats, called "pluck" (heart, liver, lungs) mixed with pin oats, onions, suet and various spices. The mixture is minced and stuffed into a sheep's stomach, then boiled for three hours. Yum, yum - just like Mamma used to make!

(I didn't get a photo of the actual haggis that night, so I had to borrow these from the web.)

Much pomp and circumstance attends the presentation of the haggis. A piper leads the procession, followed by the haggis borne on a silver platter. One man carries the knife which will be used to cut the haggis, another crossed whiskey bottles, and another bears a sword. Just watch this video (sorry, it's a bit shaky. I was overwhelmed with emotion!)




After the haggis is piped in and admired, a reading of Burns' great work, "Ode to a Haggis" preceeds the opening of the pudding with a ceremonial knife. The poem is long and generally incomprehensible. At authentic Burns' dinners, they find the man with the thickest brogue to recite it, so that no one has a clue as to what is being said. The first verse goes like this:

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm."

The standard English translation:

"Fair full your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm."

I will spare you the other seven stanzas. At the conclusion of the recitation, the haggis is sliced open, the worshippers raise their whiskey glasses in a toast, proclaiming "To the haggis!" and the most fool-hearty ones partake of the delicacy on crackers, a bit like pate.

As much fun as this is, I suspect that Burns Night is a bit like Saint Patrick's Day or Cinco de Mayo, a much bigger deal in the US than in its native land. They do still make and serve haggis in Scotland - I have had it there a couple of times - but I think it is more for the tourists than the locals.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn't feed you the folklore about hunting haggis. The story goes, these indigenous creatures are threatened in their native Highlands. You see, the haggis is not a bright creature, and is being hunted into extinction. One major problem is that their legs are longer on one side of their body than on the other, so that a haggis must stand on a hillside. As they graze 'round the mountains, they continually climb uphill. Thus, to hunt one, all you need to do is chase it to the summit, whereupon they are quite easy to capture. If you want to help Save Haggis In Trouble, you can click on this link.

a wild female haggis and her hagglets,
in their natural environment

And, if you believe that, I have some scales from Nessie I would be willing to sell you.

Scottish Skies

If it's bright blue skies and fluffy cumulus clouds you're looking for, then Scotland isn't your cup of tea. But, if you like moody, pensive, and brooding, there's nothing better than a fine, soft day in the Highlands.

moors of the Highlands

There's nearly always a handy loch to reflect your sky.

Kyle of Sutherland, at Bonar Bridge

Just when you are accustomed to grey, the sun peeks through and you get a hint of blue.

west coast of Sutherland, near Lochinver

And rarely, a picture-postcard sky will surprise you.

the harbour at Inverness, Moray Firth

Click here for more

Highland Livestock

Imagine me with nothing to say.
Enjoy these photos while I think up a story to go with them.

Edit, Nov. 2:
You know, the more I think about it, the more I realize, there really isn't a story to go with these photos. They are just two of many that I took in Scotland. I am proud of the way they came out, especially the cow. It was my primary subject. I shot the ram as an afterthought, but when it, too, came out well, I framed the pair of them as a set.

These were taken with my Pentax K-1000, a basic 35mm film camera with auto-nothing, so that the image that appears is my work, not the camera's. Depth of field, focus, composition - this is photography as it is meant to be. Both were single photos, not like now where I take dozens of pictures and discard 99% of them. Don't get me wrong, I am shooting primarily digital now, and I enjoy the instant gratification and flexibility of the medium, but for me, photos I take with my basic film camera feel more like me and less a result of technology.

If you like sheep, try this for a Scottish traffic jam:

In Scotland, the ordinary is extraordinary.

Robert Louis Stevenson said "The mark of a Scot of all classes [is that] he ... remembers and cherishes the memory of his forebears, good or bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation." It's true.

My family history is Scottish. My great-grandfather, John Dallas, was born and raised in Cawdor, Nairnshire, before emigrating to the United States. Cawdor is a small village near Inverness, the gateway to the Scottish Highlands. I have visited Scotland twice and love it. When I saw the house where my great-grandfather grew up and when I visited the gravesites of his parents and grandparents in a kirkyard in Cawdor, it just felt right. In fact, when I told someone that my family came from the area, they said, "Welcome home," with no trace of jest or mockery. They were serious. In their mind, as in mine, I had come home.

While most of my pictures of those trips are of the wild, the unusual, or the exotic, some of my favorites are photographs of ordinary Scottish people and places. Image living here and taking these sights for granted:

The village store and licensed grocer in Cawdor is also the post office, a source of Kodak film, tourist information, a public phone, a bulletin board with local notices, and all day tea. A lot of resources tucked into this tiny building.

The red Royal Mail phone box is an iconic British symbol, sadly fading in the modern age of cell phones. In the Highlands, cell towers are few and far between and some homes still don't have regular land lines, so the local phone box may be their only connection to the outside world. This box, in its little niche in Cawdor, spoke to me.

My family laughed at me when I took a picture of this fire station, part of the Highlands and Islands Fire Brigade. I liked the crisp clean lines, the bright red accents, and the way that even modern buildings are designed to blend in with the old. A sense of history and continuity seems to be essential in Scottish architecture.

A Scottish lad, learning the trade of wall building. This boy was waiting with his grandfather for the ferry to take us back to Kylesku after a visit to Kerrachar Gardens.

An ice cream shop in Inverness. Aside from the bright blue paint accenting the putty gray stucco, what primarily impressed me was the name:

No photo tour of ordinary Scotland would be complete without a picture of a Scottish vet's office, like this one in Ullapool. If you can see the street sign on the end of the building, you will notice it is both in English and Gaelic, not uncommon in the western Highlands and Islands.


As they say in Scotland, "Haste ye back."