A fistful of haggis

As we drove south from Glasgow, I had many things on my mind for this odyssey through Great Britain all the way down to Brighton.

Walk around the lakes of Lake District. Stay in a castle with almost proper plumbing. Chew down a few Kendal Mint Cake for the inevitable sugar rush. Drive on the wrong side of the road. Walk along the Brighton pier. Count all the sheep. All of them.

Always interesting to drive on the wrong side of the road.

But first things first. We stopped in Thornhill for lunch where I had to start with a proper haggis, the national dish of Scotland. Just saying the word makes some people recoil like they’ve been slapped with a wet kilt. Sheep’s heart, liver and lungs minced with onions, oats, and spices, all stuffed into a stomach and boiled into submission. Sounds like a demon wrapped in folklore, right?

But here’s the thing. It’s good. Earthy and spicy, like a savory punch to the gut that makes you forget you ever questioned it.

Having a fistful of haggis.

With that beast in my stomach, we continued south towards other adventures. “Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye!”, as they would say around here. Now where’s my Irn-Bru?