A tale of two Smokies

The first time I ever ate an Arbroath Smokie, I had just spent hours walking myself into a tired but content stupor at the Royal Highland Show. I emerged from a path onto a large open green space, where a long queue of people were standing in a continuous billow of the most aromatic smoke I had ever smelled. It was sea and charcoal, salt waves and wood and the drawn-out ache of an almost-fire that is never allowed to catch.

Sometimes in life you come across a scene that just draws you in. As soon as you see it you can’t imagine not being a part of it yourself.

Immediately I made my way to the end of the queue and stood in the wafts of smoke, watching with watering eyes as a man lifted a jute sack from one of the barrels where the fish were hanging and with an expert eye, hoisted them up in a silent declaration that these Smokies were ready to eat.

A Smokie was handed to me in a paper wrapping and immediately the juice began to ooze through my fingers.

I knew the smoke smell would be in my skin for hours, but I didn’t care. I just sat myself down on the grass and used my wee wooden fork to flake off big chunks of haddock flesh, chewing slowly to match the rhythm of the long summer afternoon.

The second time I tried an Arbroath Smokie, it was a bit of disaster. After visiting Arbroath Abbey we couldn’t leave town without a wander down to the harbour. Go to Arbroath without buying a Smokie? The word sacrilege comes to mind.

At one of the smokehouses we bought two Smokies, sold cold. When we got home I set to work attempting to resurrect the pleasure I had experienced in June. I wrapped the Smokies in foil and put them in the oven to heat them and within minutes the signature heady scent filled the flat. Except this time the smell seemed to press against the walls like it was trying to be absorbed so it could seep out again later.

It just wasn’t the same. The flesh wasn’t as moist and flaky and eating it inside just didn’t fit for me. It was too heavy, too rich for indoor consumption.

For me Smokies feel like work food - wholesome outdoor fare that you eat after you have exerted a lot of energy and need to power up again. Also, for the same reason that I have never made Cullen Skink, I just don’t like my home to smell of smoked fish.

The next time I get a chance to be outside and eat a freshly cooked Arbroath Smokie, made by people with years of experience, I will happily stand in a long queue to partake in the deliciousness. This is one Scottish delicacy I am content to leave to the experts.

For more information on Arbroath Smokies, Iain R. Spink’s site gives insight into the history and cooking method.

***A wee note...If there are any Scottish bloggers out there who fancy trying their hand at guest blogging, the lovely Melissa at Smitten by Britain is looking for writers to add some Scottish flair for her readers. :)

The broken splendour of Arbroath Abbey

Arbroath Abbey is a field of massive stone shards, rusted dominos that rest together like old men who have known each other for more years than any of them can remember.

At one time the abbey was one of the most impressive buildings in medieval Scotland, 90 metres long with a trio of towers meant to inspire awe and reverence.

Today the grave of the abbey’s founder, William the Lion, lies exposed among the ruins of the nave, the carved words “King of Scots” flecked with fresh grass clippings.

But the gaze will always be drawn towards what it finds most beautiful, stopping there to help the imagination rebuild what time has torn away.

At Arbroath it is what the locals call “The Round O,” a large circular window in the gable of the south transept. At one time light would have poured through stained glass, and even today the afternoon sun seems to target the orb, producing a lighthouse-like glow through the empty eye.

For those with a love of doors, you may stare longingly at the one on the other side of the south transept.

With its hinges and handle still intact but its stairway long gone, this door in the sky looks like something from a fairy tale.

If we could just climb up to open it, perhaps a mysterious rush would fill our ears and we would find ourselves in 1233, listening to the murmured echoes of the monks preparing for services in the sacristy.

The sacristy is the only part of the church which remains roofed. It is closed to the public, but it is said to have some of the best acoustics of any building in Scotland.

The guest house and the abbot’s house are squat and sturdy, having survived much of the deterioration suffered by the bulk of the abbey.

Inside the guest house is a copy of the Declaration of Arbroath, when the Pope was asked in 1320 to recognize Scotland’s independence from England and to acknowledge Robert the Bruce as the King of Scotland.

Push a button on an interactive exhibition and a sombre voice will fill the room with readings from the famous document.

“As long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, that we are fighting, but for freedom - for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”

A short repose in the graveyard is necessary before any visit to the abbey can be considered complete.

Tall trees nestle against high stone walls, buffering external noise and filtering in a sweeping calm through the gravestones. Walk the rows searching for names and dates, tributes to lost love or the stamp-like skull and crossbones that seems to say “death was here.”

One special gravestone has been taken inside the abbey’s modern visitor centre, where it is protected from the elements and perched on a wall at eye level. On the left, an old woman leaning on her stick, and on the right, Death holding an arrow or “sting.” (1 Corinthians 15:55 “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”)

Even in the bright sunlight, no church or abbey that I have visited has made me feel as sad as Arbroath. Only because I know how beautiful it would have been, once upon a time.

I yearned for the walls to reappear, to grow out of the ground, perfectly carved stones clicking together. I wanted to see long shadows forming over the gravestone slab of William the Lion, blanketing him in cool calm, an offer of long, nourishing rest.

However a gentle smile reappears when I cast my mind back to the Round O and the strange trick of the light through its invisible lens. Glowing hot and vibrant as it always has, as if it has never realized it is broken.

Sand, sea and history at Lunan Bay

Driving towards Lunan Bay on the Angus coast, there are glimpses of the beach stretching out from Boddin Point to Lang Craig. But this doesn’t give you the real sense of scale.

This only happens once you have parked the car and are making your way up over the dunes. Distracted by the sand already pouring into your shoes, you hit the crest of the hill unprepared for the two-mile smile which suddenly glows up at you.

Despite being named one of Scotland’s best beaches, there are so few people around that you feel a bit like an intruder. But once you step onto the beach itself, this feeling changes and suddenly you are a part of the scene, one of the pieces moving inside the painting.

If you had the magical ability to move through time, you could tug yourself back a thousand years and watch Viking ships coming ashore here before the marauders are beaten back by King Malcolm II’s army.

Move a hundred years or so into the future and you could see the slow and steady construction of Red Castle, which today resembles a giant stone Tetris piece.

Like any beach, Lunan Bay invites exploration. Stand still and almost breathless until the seabirds forget you are there and resume their shallow water puttering and their sudden, mad squabbles over scraps of food.

Spend time walking with long, slow strides, casting your eye over the barrage of pretty pebbles in search of the agates and gemstones that often reveal themselves here.

As the sun creeps out once again from behind a bank of cloud, leave the Red Castle behind and head north towards the crumpled cliffs that wear green hats and crusty patches of yellow over their faces.

As you draw closer your heart begins to race as the word “cave!” bellows in your mind.

Yes, you are a pirate, come to seek the treasure you have heard was hidden here hundreds of years ago.

Moving into the shadows you study every inch, imagining how you would tuck yourself in during a storm and whether the tide would reach the tiny ledge in the very darkest corner.

By the time you head back there will be so much sand in your shoes there is no point in fighting it. Instead, climb around the dunes and watch the wind carve grandiose shapes from the sand, one grain at a time.

Finally it’s time to go. You have only be gone a few short hours, but it feels like days. Does it get any better than that?