Bread

by Stephen Brown

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

  Fantastic news! Which is leading me to say that I am fast becoming a firm believer in what I call ‘Geeza’s Law,’ due to the fact that I have often heard him repeat this one statement, sometimes under his breath, as if continually reminding himself of it at specific times: “There is no such thing as Coincidence.”

  As I piled high my plate with juicy salads and a veritable mound of barbecued meat, I got to chatting with Mr MacIntosh - Allistair as he insists I call him - who is in the amiable habit of circulating amongst the guests at meal times, cocktail in hand, in order to make small talk and see that everybody’s needs are met, thus ensuring a pleasurable stay for one and all. He is the real colonial type, impeccably dressed in a lightweight beige cotton suit, and wearing a large, whiskery moustache. When seated in conversation he toys playfully with this prodigious facial decoration and his eyes glaze over as he wistfully recalls anecdotes with a fondness born of time and distance, whether the activities of a guest last week, or the far from forgotten memories of his childhood in Scotland.

  And this is the amazing thing! Are you ready for this? Allistair MacIntosh was born some fifty nine years ago to a humble background on the northern coast of the Isle of Skye. That is amazing enough in itself, but further than that, his parents were part of the coastal community upon the shores of Loch Alsh, hardly a stones throw from Eilean Ban where my journey originated! Unbelievable! What a small world!

  Here I am, thousands of miles away from home, my Scottish research all but forgotten, when I suddenly find myself talking to a man whom I suspected would be able to single handedly solve many of my Caledonian conundrums in one afternoon!

  When I realised what a gold mine I had stumbled on to, I decided to let Mr Vermies tackle the trail of the Professor by himself for the time being, while I took the opportunity to indulge in my hobby a little and concentrate my efforts on wringing out as much information as possible from Allistair. So this afternoon, as Geeza walked the bustling streets of Nairobi, I bombarded MacIntosh with questions and Haggis was where we started.

  When I last left Eilean Ban, I had learned of the feud amongst the fishing communities of the area, which somehow led to the discovery, or perhaps invention would be a better word, of Haggis. I asked Mr MacIntosh what he knew and this is what he told me.

  There was, at around the same time as the fishing dispute, an abundance of badgers inhabiting the areas along the Northwest coast of Scotland. Now these badgers, nocturnal and shy creatures that they are, were mistakenly blamed so the story goes for the night time activities of one Eoan McPresley - later discovered to be a notorious chicken thief, the scourge of poultry farmers from Kyleakin to Badicaul.

  What with the dietary shortfall that both sets of villagers now suffered as a result of the self-imposed lack of squid and also the fact that chicken was mysteriously disappearing from their menus, the village Elders decreed that in order to kill two badgers with one stone (more of that coming up) they would create a brand new dish, the main ingredient of which would have to be the only remaining source of meat to be found in any abundance in the area – the badger.

  Having decimated the population over a period of time, using only the best cuts of the once numerous local badgers, the recipe underwent the first of the many changes it was to see before it finished up as the world famous culinary delight that we all know today. Rather than badger, which was by now very difficult to find, the natives of the area started to use otter instead, whose numbers had boomed with the abundance of squid now available to them.

  Over the years, of course, the same thing happened and gradually, as the population declined, the less desirable parts of the unfortunate otters were incorporated into the meals so as to get as much out of the animal as possible. It was all too little too late however and after not too many months more the inevitable happened and the otters vanished completely.

  The hungry inhabitants of the countryside surrounding Loch Alsh then proceeded through necessity to begin a period of experimentation, trying all manner of local fauna for their staple dish. Squirrels, voles, sparrows, earthworms, even squid was tried again, but nothing seemed to work. None of these substitutes did the trick. Too salty, too earthy, too fishy, too difficult to catch - whatever they tried, there was always something not quite right. Eventually it was decided that they would revert back to the badgers, whose numbers had rejuvenated somewhat by then. This time however, they did not throw away the offal, but instead began to use all of the edible parts as they had done with the late and lamented otters.

  So determined were they not to waste a single morsel, a brand new method of killing was devised which in turn gave rise to another Scottish phenomenon, that of the Blarney Stone.

  Yes, it is true that this famous stone can nowadays be found built into the very definitely Irish Blarney Castle of County Cork, but it has not always resided there. Originally the Blarney Stone was a large, smooth rock, with two holes of about an inch each in circumference, holes that had been worn away over time by the ceaseless motion of the seas around Skye.

  Through these holes two badgers would be secured by strong cords, and then the whole lot was thrown into the Loch, thus drowning the badgers and therefore ensuring that their carcasses’ would not be spoilt in any way. Hence the phrase, ‘to kill two badgers with one stone,’ which has been denigrated through the years to the proverb we know today. Remarkable.

  Back to the Haggis though, and after years of eating countless ‘blarnies’ of badgers, domesticated livestock became more and more prevalent, and so in the matter of two or three generations, the Haggis changed yet again, with the principle ingredients becoming predominantly lamb and occasionally beef. Things were added, things were left out, but essentially this is the moment in time when Haggis became the dish we know and love in the present day.

  Fascinating, and also astounding that I should have discovered the full story so soon after hearing the first tantalizing tales back in Eilean Ban.

  And this was not all. In an interconnected story, did you know that America was actually discovered by a Scotsman? I had of course suspected as much, but here was the proof, straight from the living memory of Mr A MacIntosh who had heard the tale from his great-grandfather, to whom it had been told by an equally aged relative.

  “Aye, it’s true. It was just after the first lot of badgers had dried up and the otters were started upon, it soon became apparent that a mistake had been made. Chickens were still going missing, you see, but there weren’t any badgers left any more, or very few I should say, so it couldn’t possibly be them. And so it followed that it probably hadn’t been them in the first place, you ken?”

  “I do, I do,” I said scribbling notes down frantically, fascinated.

  “Well, there then followed some very dark days indeed for the peoples of Loch Alsh. Out of the ever-present threat of hunger people grew highly suspicious and mean-spirited. Neighbour watched neighbour and an air of mistrust and unhappiness spread out across the land. In this sort of climate it wasn’t long before the activities of that notorious Eoan McPresley were noticed. Gradually word got round, until only a few weeks later – that’s Scottish weeks of course, as they counted the days back then-”

  “Scottish weeks?” I interrupted; well, I felt I had to.

  “Oh aye – did you not know about them?” I replied that I didn’t. “Well, the ancient Scots used to divvy up the year into four seasons same as we do, but their weeks only had five days each, each day honouring one of the five stages of making a kilt.”

  “I see,” I said. I didn’t.

  “The Scots didn’t count time the same way we do Mr. Cripplesby. You have to remember how hard it would have been to eke out a living back then; just to survive. They had no concept, or desire in fact for a ‘weekend.’ Every day was toil and if you didn’t toil you didn’t eat. Simple as that.

  “Now, everybody knows the Scotsman’s propensity to drink.”

  “Indeed, it is perhaps the t
hing they are most famous for around the world,” I agreed.

  “Aye well, folk back then couldn’t afford to have someone bladdered and off their heads, lazing around all day sleeping off the effects from the night before, so a ‘weekend’ - a free day, time off - was not exactly what you’d call a progressive socio-economic step for them, you see what I mean?”

  “I do,” and this time I did.

  “Right then. Five day weeks. The year would start on…” he blew out heavily, frowning as he made the calculations in his head. “Let’s say on about our March the tenth. Course they didn’t know it as March the tenth, but it’d be around two ‘weeks’ before the Spring Equinox, see? There were then fifty weeks of five days each with the year coming to an end on or around our fifth of November. And that was that – the Scottish Year.”

  “Err,” I began, having seen the obvious flaw, “but what about the rest of the year? What about the winter?”

  “Och come on! Have you ever been to Scotland during the winter? It’s not something you want to remind yourself of, believe me. No, they ignored it.”

  “Ignored it?”

  “Aye. They just ‘got through.’ They didn’t count it out, just tried to get by – and why not? There’s a whole lot of trees and animals do the same; they can’t all be wrong.”

  “Well… I suppose not,” I conceded, although I was not yet fully convinced.

  He went on though to explain that the word ‘hibernation’ can actually be traced back to the Emperor Hadrian, who managed to take a legion as far north as the present location of Leith, just beyond Edinburgh.

  During this exploratory march, which Hadrian noted on his slate diaries as being distinctly uncomfortable, the roman legionaries had time to observe these ‘long-sleep’ practices amongst the locals before they collectively decided enough was enough and fled the weather to head back down south. Driven temporarily mad through exposure, Hadrian had his wall put up to try and keep the wind out. Bizarre, but true!

  Hiburnus, in Latin, means wintry – I checked it up - and Hibs, or Hibernian FC, the Scottish football club based in Leith was supposedly born out of the first ever game, played between the natives of the area and a team of Hadrian’s soldiers!

  “What about Leap Years?” I asked.

  “The ancient Scots didn’t bother with Leap Years Elliot – before March the tenth see?”

  “Hmm…”

  “Anyway, where were we?” he asked after a moment’s silence. I checked my notes.

  “Err… ok, people were beginning to suspect Eoan McPresley.”

  “Aye, that’s right. Well, young McPresley was made public enemy number one soon enough and on the very night a mob had been formed to apprehend him he took to his heels and fled. That was enough to damn him in the eyes of the locals, of course. Definitely guilty. Only thing was, no one knew where he’d gone. Vanished he had, into the night and he was never heard from again.

  “There were some terrible repercussions for the rest of his family though and every single one of the remaining McPresleys, in deepest shame, took the drastic action of tearing up their tartan and changing their Clan name so that never again would a McPresley walk upon the western shores of Scotland.”

  The hotelier was evidently enjoying our conversation as much as I was. He ordered another cocktail for us both and then delegated his usual duties for the afternoon to the rest of the staff.

  “It doesn’t end there though Mr. Cripplesby. The legend continues that a local woman by the name of Mrs Gloriana Lummley saw McPresley put to sea in a small, one man coracle and most hurriedly paddle away.

  “Now the rest is just conjecture, with no direct evidence to support it, but it is a tale well known throughout the Highlands so it must have origins as old as the roots of the mountains. If the story is to be believed, Eoan McPresley single-handedly navigated his way across the Atlantic and landed upon the shores of the New World years before even the Vikings went there.

  “He is said to have beached his coracle near the mouth of what is today known as the St Lawrence River, where he fell in with the local Indians. After some years his tough, Highland ways saw him rise through the ranks to eventually become chief of the indigenous tribe. He re-named the tribe by swapping syllables around from MicMac to MacMic, but though they tolerated this whilst he lived, as soon as he passed away the elders reverted back to the original.”

  Amazing! I was struck with a light-headed giddiness which was not only down to the numerous cocktails I had downed over the course of the afternoon. What a day! I know that I have only scratched at the surface of MacIntosh’s knowledge and there is more – so much more to come.

  And then there is all the news that Geeza brought back with him! Frankly though I am much too tired to go into it now. It is late and I want my bed.

  ***