A Swing Through Scotland

As the Royal Mile extends past the Bridges in this very old capital, busy High Street mellows when its name becomes Canongate. For centuries, Canongate was a separate borough, a refuge of sorts from Edinburgh’s marketplace cacophony. On this day, as before, Canongate was gentle, uncrowded, quiet.

Until the bagpipes.

I cannot ignore bagpipes. Not anywhere, and certainly not here, in Scotland.

The squeal and drone was emanating from the open door of a little shop. Ralph Hepburn, the owner, was playing them, demonstrating for a customer the unique characteristics of a particular set of drones.

The customer satisfied, we talked pipes.

“The money in the bagpipes is basically in the drones,” said Hepburn.

The drones are the big tubular guys; the melody comes from the skinnier thing, the chanter, the part that goes into the player’s mouth. Starting price for a decent set of bagpipes, according to Hepburn: 550 pounds, or $900.

“The most you’d spend on a set now,” he said, “would be about three and a half thousand pounds.”

I wasn’t buying, but someone is.

“It’s getting bigger,” he said. “The biggest countries are Scotland, Canada, Australia. America’s getting a lot more pipe bands, and so are places like France and Germany.”

“Germany?”

“Aye,” he said. “Germans are absolutely infatuated with them. They’re infatuated with the Scottish music now.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask a German.”

I began my search for Germans at Cadenhead’s Whisky Shop, down the street. There I talked Scotch whiskey with Alan Murray, the shopkeeper. Single-malts, the mother whiskeys from which the blended Cuttys and Chivases and Walkers - blendeds are considered second-rate here - are derived.

I wanted to know which is the best single-malt.

“It all comes down to your personal taste,” he said. “One guy might like something like The Macallan, the ones that are sherry-wood matured. The other guy, he’s got a completely different taste. He likes the very heavy ones like Laphroaig, Lagavulin. Very strong, peaty sort of taste.”

I had no idea what Alan Murray was talking about.

So I abandoned my search for Germans and began that evening a search for My Personal Taste at a pub near St. Andrew Square. “Give me your favorite single-malt,” I told the young bartender at Tiles.

“I’m not an authority on whiskey,” he said apologetically. “I’m really not.”

Fine, I said, set me up drams of two whiskeys that represent altogether different properties. The lad consulted his best authorities - three off-duty barmaids enjoying cigarettes at the far end of the bar - then poured servings of two single malts: Laphroaig and something called Glenkinchie.

I sipped the Glenkinchie. It tasted like whiskey. I refreshed my palate with water, then sipped the Laphroaig. It tasted like smoke.

“Which one do you like?” asked the lad. I pointed toward the Laphroaig.

“This one,” I rasped. “What do I owe you?”

So it began….

There is so much to see and savor in Scotland. I had two weeks, in late April and early May, to see and savor what I could.

I was welcomed to Edinburgh by Andrea Targett-Adams, keeper of a pleasant bed-and-breakfast called 27 Heriot Row. I was ready to explore the town.

“There’s a bit of a breeze,” she warned, “so walk on the north-south streets.”

The key tourist streets run east and west here, but never mind that.

The weather in Scotland is Scottish weather, and you deal with it as Scots have for millennia: When it’s rotten, which happens, you wear a sweater, possibly a cap, you learn to squint, you wear rain suits on the golf course, you develop a taste for single-malt whiskey.

If the sun shines, which happens more than you might expect, you ditch the sweater, the cap and the rain suits … and you develop a taste for single-malt whiskey.

Breeze or not, enjoying Edinburgh is, well, a breeze. The classic tour path begins at massive Edinburgh Castle - parts date to the 1100s - set on a volcanic Gibraltar overlooking the city, which is what fortresses did in those days.

The castle is the trailhead for what has come to be known as the Royal Mile. At the opposite end is the elegant and tourable Palace of Holyroodhouse, about as old but cozier than the castle, which is why it was preferred by various Scottish kings and favored on her frequent visits by Queen Victoria.

Along the Mile are lots of places of tourist interest, notably the Scotch Whisky Heritage Centre; the High Kirk of St. Giles, where John Knox championed the Scottish Reformation; and Parliament Square, whose Parliament House ceased to be a parliament after the 1707 Union with England but should become one again in 2000 as the result of a Sept. 11 referendum.

Also at this square is the site of the Old Tolbooth, the former (and notorious) town prison flattened in 1817. A heart-shaped stone marking the spot is routinely spat upon as a gesture of contempt. Watch your step.

South of the castle and the Royal Mile are two more draws: a memorial to and likeness of Greyfriars Bobby, the dog that spent 14 years alongside its master’s grave, leaving only to poop; and the Grassmarket, which no longer markets grass but retains its market character. Conversation-friendly pubs and little shops abound here, making this a pleasant spot to unwind after a morning of castles, churches and spittle.

It was here, at a 300-year-old restaurant-pub called the Beehive Inn, where I first saw and savored haggis. Haggis is the most Scottish substance you can ingest in Scotland that isn’t a liquid. Its contents - oatmeal, liver, onions, spices and body parts best left unmentioned - don’t matter. Nor does the sheep’s stomach that figures somewhere in the process.

The waiter had two words as he set the plate before me: “Good luck.”

I liked it better than the Glenkinchie but it lacked the finish of the Laphroaig.

The Royal Mile is the heart of the Old Town. Princes Street is the heart of the New Town, which, reaffirming the theory of relativity, dates to the 1750s. The north side of Princes Street has hotels, some big stores and is about as inspiring as 1960s Kansas City.

The impressive stuff is across the street: the Scott Monument, a 200-foot spire honoring the novelist-poet (“Ivanhoe,” “Rob Roy”), with a massive Sir Walter statue at its base; the Big Benian clock tower at what is now the Balmoral Hotel, adjacent to Waverley Station; and the Princes Street Gardens, a broad stretch of terraced parkland that rises to meet Edinburgh Castle.

At night, the floodlit castle appears to float magically above the park, especially when seen toward the end of an evening’s search for the perfect single-malt.

There’s more to Edinburgh, of course. But the road beckoned. The road - and Carnoustie.

Carnoustie, one of Scotland’s great links courses, will be the site of the 1999 British Open. I played it. I played reasonably well for me, which is to say I did not play well. My score was 123.

I’ll save the details. But it was wonderful. So was Arbroath.

I stayed there overnight because it was a cute fishing town and because I was able to get a good room with bath and breakfast at the Kingsley Guest House for $32. Glamis Castle - linked to “Macbeth,” residence of the Queen Mother before her marriage to George VI and full of ghosts - is a short drive away.

Mainly, Arbroath is home to the elusive Arbroath smoky. It’s actually a North Sea haddock that’s smoked in Arbroath, and its popularity makes the entire town smell like smoked haddock - but there are worse smells, and the fish, grilled and topped with a lemon butter, is rightly treasured.

At a pub called the Ship Inn, I ordered The Macallan. “Add a drop of water,” said the stranger next to me. “Just a drop, no more.”

I dripped a drop from the pitcher on the bar into my glass.

“Makes it bloom,” he said.

The next day, it was on to St. Andrews.

As famous as it is, as familiar to golf fans as are some of its images, one is never fully prepared for the Old Course at St. Andrews.

“The initial impression of a lot of people,” said Neil Paton, head pro at the 5-star Old Course Hotel that overlooks the 17th fairway, “is, ‘Is this all it is?’ “I say to them ‘Yes, but wait till you get out there.”’ People have been getting out there, on that very ground, making fools of themselves for something like 600 years.

My score was 107. I’ll save the details. But it was wonderful.

As was the rest of St. Andrews, the town that surrounds the golf course and a bunch more. If there were no golf here, it would still be marvelous. It has been a college town since 1410 and looks it. Its cathedral - now a magnificent ruin - dates to 1160; its castle, also a ruin, to 1200. “Chariots of Fire,” which was not a ruin, was filmed on its beaches.

The Peat Inn, a nice 20-minute drive, is considered by many the finest restaurant in all of Scotland. It’s expensive: You’ll easily pay more than $100 a head even with the house wine. It’s Scottish, so expect salmon, but try the venison.

Back in St. Andrews, the Road Hole Bar in the Old Course Hotel carries 110 single-malt whiskies; most expensive is a 1964 Bowmore Black Distilled at $128 a shot. I skipped the Bowmore, tried the Lagavulin.

On to Glasgow.

I had scheduled just an evening and a morning in Glasgow, and on first impression even that seemed excessive. If Edinburgh was a jewel, Glasgow was a lump of coal: hard, gritty. At my hotel, I asked the desk clerk what was going on in town tonight. Her reply: “Nothing.”

So I walked and found a pub - the Cask and Still - showing a soccer match between Scotland and Sweden. The pub was alive. Scotland’s team was not. The bartender, Andrew Craig, found me. I told him of my search. He handed me a list of malts in stock. There were 161 names on the list.

“Give me something I won’t forget,” I said.

He poured a Glendronach. “That’s what I drink,” he said. “Sip it - don’t just swig it.” Nice - and so, the next morning, was Glasgow.

“We see ourselves as very much complementary to Edinburgh,” said Ken Walton of the city’s tourist board. Its charms, he conceded, aren’t as obvious.”You have to work at it a little bit,” he said.

If you do - and I did - you discover this is a city rich in architectural heritage (heavy Victorian, plus interesting work by the visionary Charles Rennie Mackintosh), with fine parks, plenty of history and a wealth of cultural goodies.

It also has, in front of its Gallery of Modern Art, a statue of the Duke of Wellington atop a horse. Atop Wellington on this day was an orange traffic cone.

How did it get up there?

“Most of the time it’s nightclubbers having had too much to drink,” said the man who runs a newsstand across the street. “They climb up there.”

Edinburgh has spitting; Glasgow has this. Same idea, different strokes.

On to Royal Troon.

Last year’s British Open was there. Played the course. My score was 107. I’ll save the details. But it was wonderful.

The nearest sizable town is Ayr. This is Burns Country - Robert, not George - so in neighboring Alloway you can visit the cottage in which he was born, view sites mentioned in his poetry and experience the “Tam o’ Shanter Experience,” a multimedia expression of the epic poem that’s, well, an experience.

In Ayr, at breakfast, I sampled another Scottish delicacy: black pudding.

“What’s in black pudding?” I asked the waiter.

“Many good things,” the waiter said.

Then it was up to the Highlands, past the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond and on into countryside more beautiful than can be imagined. And at Glencoe, on a perfectly sunny day, the air was filled not only with springtime but with that sound again.

Standing alone on a rock, in full kilt, playing “Scotland the Brave” on bagpipes, was Ian McPhee.

The valley resonated. I pulled over, walked 50 or so yards to where this man was standing, and listened. Then I put a few coins in the case near where he stood.

Ian McPhee has been doing this, on this spot, for 30 years. He is 40.

“I used to play here with my old man,” he said, “when I was 10 years old.”

Good living?

“Sometimes yeah, sometimes no,” he said. “Depends on traffic, how busy it is.”

He launched into “Amazing Grace.” A car stopped, a couple stepped out, listened for a moment, posed alongside for a picture, dropped a few coins and left, all before the end of “Amazing Grace.”

His playlist is small.

“You play what they want to hear,” he said.

He tore again into “Scotland the Brave.” No one stopped.

His single-malt of choice: Glenmorangie or Glenfiddich.

“Just drink it as it comes,” he said.

Not even a drop, to make it bloom?

“Whatever you do, don’t add any water or lemonade,” he said. “As it comes.”

One cannot visit Scotland on assignment and bypass Drumnadrochit. This is the lair of (dramatic pause) the Loch Ness Monster!

Well, the loch is the lair. The town, such as it is, has the “exhibitions” (one’s “the original,” one’s “the official”), ice cream stores and souvenir emporia.

“There was a sighting reported this year,” explained, with great seriousness, the manager of one, “but no photograph. The problem is the loch is so deep….”

If your kids think professional wrestling is real, they’ll buy into this - and probably buy a stuffed Monster to take home. I almost bought the one that, when you press its body, plays “Auld Lang Syne.”

Kept driving north, through Inverness (which looked good, but time was short) and into Dornoch. I’d hoped to play Royal Dornoch, regarded the best of the North Highlands courses, couldn’t get a tee time and settled for a stroll on its edges. Beautiful course.

Instead, played Tain Golf Club, another links course recommended by several locals.

I don’t remember my score. I do remember the score wasn’t good. I’ll save the details. But it was wonderful.

Dornoch, the town, was magic. Its cathedral was consecrated in 1239, and the rest of the place fit. Fine dinner at the Mallin House Hotel. Impossibly friendly people, especially the local folks at the Eagle Hotel bar.

“There’s no bad whiskey,” said a new friend, another Ian. “But some are better than others.”

Glenmorangie, the town’s own, with just a splash of water.

To sum up Dornoch: I could have stayed there forever. It will stay with me forever.

And on to Skye. Where it rained much of the time, and it didn’t matter.

“You won’t see much today from your car, because the mist is down,” said the cashier at the Clan Donald Visitor Centre gift shop. She was wrong.

It was a soft rain, and it seemed right for the place. It softened the land, heightened its colors. The white cottages glowed, the bogs turned to tapestry. Dunvegan Castle seemed more ancient than its 150 years. The sheep and the longhaired Highland cattle, moving slowly, contentedly, gave life to it all.

Talisker, with a splash. Peaty, smoky. Like the island.

In the morning, at Ardvasar Harbor, the sun sent beams through clouds that lingered on the mountains. No wonder the Scots are a poetic people. My goodness….

Back to the mainland, to Glenfinnan and tales of Bonnie Prince Charlie; to the Trossachs of Rob Roy; to Stirling, with its castle and its monuments to Robert the Bruce and Bannockburn and to William Wallace - “Braveheart.”

Wallace’s actual broadsword, a 6-footer, rests today within the massive monument above the site of the Battle of Stirling Bridge, where he and his men defeated the English in 1297.

Mel Gibson has never been inside the monument, nor seen the sword.

“I know,” said Rhian Fallan, who sells tickets there, mirroring my disbelief. “I can’t believe it either. He had to drive past here to get to Stirling Castle, where they had the post-premiere party, and he didn’t come up here or anything. It was pretty shocking.”

On the other hand, attendance at the monument since the movie came out is up 150 percent.

On to Gleneagles.

I stopped here only because it was touted as the world’s most fabulous golf resort. The touters knew whereof they touted. Three splendid courses, plus a super-luxury hotel that would intimidate if the people who worked there weren’t so kind.

“That’s as it should be,” said the kilted doorman.

Here, I didn’t play golf. Nor did I ride at the equestrian center. There were other diversions.

“You could be here a fortnight and do something different every day,” said a staffer. I was here for one day and did two things I’d never done.

I shot at clay pigeons. I missed them all. I was given a lesson in falconry by yet another Ian, this one Ian Smith. The falcon’s name was Oscar. The game was rabbit. “The odds,” said Smith, “favor the rabbit.”

I didn’t want to leave Gleneagles. No one could want to leave Gleneagles. No one could want to leave Scotland. But I had to get to Edinburgh, and I had to catch a train for London.

Before I left: Lagavulin. Smoky, great finish. Taken in a convivial pub with just a drop of water and the memory of the sound of Ian McPhee’s bagpipes.

Aye.

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