Porridge and Ghosts: Winter Staples (& treats!)

The start of the dark season is filled with so many wonderful distractions in Scotland. It seems to me that the Scottish take the coming of winter very seriously, as along with the growing shadows and the wind that turns the body to an icy sponge, there is a sense of ritual, of facing off with the gloom.

This post is dedicated to two staples of Scottish life: a hot bowl of porridge, and a good ghost story.

First, to porridge. Dear reader, I ask you to lift your spoon in salute, for today is a great day. Yes, today the World Porridge Making Championships took place in Carrbridge in Inverness-shire. Known as The Golden Spurtle, this competition takes place each year in celebration of one of Scotland’s most beloved dishes. Contestants from around the world have taken part, and today American Matthew Fox was awarded the coveted golden spurtle trophy.

The organizers of The Golden Spurtle event have taken their passion one step further and teamed up with the Scottish Charity Mary’s Meals, to dub today World Porridge Day in a bid to help feed children in some of the poorest countries in the world.

But I digress. What on earth is a spurtle? Dating from the 15th century, the dowel-like spurtle has a place in most Scottish kitchens, where it is used to stir soups and (you guessed it) porridge.

I was unable to make it to this year’s big event, however I still wanted to mark the occasion, so on Saturday I wandered over to Edinburgh’s Farmers' Market. There in the centre of the market, just where I knew it would be, sat the wee Stoats Porridge hut.

I love the Stoats Porridge people. They don’t just offer pots of organic porridge, they tempt us with porridge with white chocolate and toasted hazelnuts, or whisky, honey and cream, or the always popular Cranachan recipe, which features raspberries, honey and cream.

If you don’t fancy a pot of porridge, you can buy one of the bars and become utterly, hopelessly addicted until you find yourself offering to bribe the salespeople for the recipe. On Saturday I opted to skip my usual choice of white chocolate and hazelnuts and go for a Cranachan porridge. And the lovely porridge girl even let me take her photo - hurrah!

As my own way of encouraging Scotland lovers to dig out their oats and get cooking, I am giving away a spurtle! Alas, it’s not golden - it’s beech wood. But it does come with a little recipe attached so you can get cooking right away.

But wait! Before you throw your name in the hat for the Scottish spoon of excellence, what about ghosts? Didn’t I say that the dark season was full of delightful distractions?

The annual atmosphere of eeriness is being set around the country, with various events marking the approach of Samhain, better known as Halloween. The Pagan New Year, Samhain is a time for telling stories and honouring the thinning veil between our worlds. In Edinburgh, the various ghost tours become busier as the flying leaves and black cobbles give the evening walks an extra ambience of the other-worldly.

The Scottish Storytelling Festival will soon be kicking off, with events planned around Scotland. As always it includes a special session dedicated to ghost stories on Halloween night. I have attended this event in the past and the walk home always takes on a wonderful chill that delights me in ways I cannot describe.

Over in the forests of Perthshire, the lights of the Enchanted Forest will once again astound visitors. The theme for this year’s event, which also ends 1 November, is Scottish Myths and Legends.

If you’re looking for the basis of a ghost story to tell your kids this autumn, there is nothing like a good old fashioned haunting, and Scotland has no shortage of buildings said to house restless spirits. The second edition of Martin Coventry’s Haunted Places of Scotland has just come out, and this is my second treat for the month of October.

But here’s the rub: you have to choose. Do you want to throw your name into hat for the spurtle, symbol of Scottish porridge goodness? Or do you want to read through a list of frightening spectres like the phantom coach of Dumfries House or the spirit of the monk said to haunt to cloister area of Melrose Abbey?

As usual, entering is as easy as leaving a comment and specifying your choice of the porridge hat or the haunted hat. To comment on this post is to enter your name in the draw, so if you don’t specify a choice, I will choose for you and you will just have to be surprised. If you don’t have a blog that you can link back to, you can email me at scotland4thesenses@googlemail.com and include “porridge ghosts!” in the subject line. Those who won the last giveaway won’t be able to play this time around, but you can join in again for November.

I’ll be drawing the names on 17 October, so get your names in before then!

***********This giveaway has now finished. Congrats to Chris and Deb Salisbury:)********************

Lucid Dream Real Estate: Near John O' Groats

Perhaps this view isn't for everyone, as the road nearing the northerly most settlement in Britain is surrounded by bleak, wind-swept countryside. But I am often drawn to dwellings that look like they could have been heaved from the pages of a historical novel. I imagine characters who attempt to hide dark, unspoken secrets while something mythical lurks in the cellar.

Due to the fact that I will be away until early October, I'm not able to undertake the "giving of treats" this month. Hopefully two lots of treat giving will follow next month, for October is not only the blissful beginning of the dark season, it also marks the time for the Scottish Storytelling Festival and the gloopy goodness of the annual World Porridge Making Championships.

Cut that out! You're not going to do a song while I'm here...at Doune

When I think of the history of Doune Castle, I imagine the centuries being smudged together in a “Danielson: wax-on, wax-off” kind of way.

For example, when you stand at the entrance of Doune, you could say that you are thinking about how it was built in the fourteenth century by Robert, Duke of Albany and how it was later taken over by the Earl of Moray, the half-brother of Mary, Queen of Scots. Or how centuries after that, Bonnie Prince Charlie used it as a prison following the battle of Falkirk.

But, really, we’re amongst friends here. Why lie? What you're really doing is waiting for a particular sound to break through the birdsong and clamour over the hills. In reality, your ears strain to hear the unmistakeable noise of halved coconut shells being banged together by grown men dressed in medieval garb and pretending to ride horses.

High above you, John Cleese’s helmeted head will pop out above the stone wall before beginning his spitting tirade to the “daffy English kaniggets.” And later as you gaze out from one of the high windows at the HUGE…tracks of land…that surround the River of Teith, all you know is that you’d rather…you’d rather…just…SING!

Day-to-day at this Historic Scotland site, the presence of the Monty Python classic is subdued. There is a small stack of coconut halves behind the desk in the shop (which also sells "Holy Grail" Ale), and one room that is bedecked in information boards about the Castle’s long history also includes tales from the making of the film.

Apparently one Monty Python-themed day was attempted, but the castle was so overrun with fans that a traffic jam of bodies occurred in the narrow spiral staircases, creating a safety issue.

More than the beauty of the countryside or the fascinating things about the castle, such as the remarkable thickness of the walls or the regal sight of the main hall, there is one thing that shines as a wonderful reason to visit Doune.

Most of the time in Britain when you see tourists wandering around historic places with those audio commentary machines pushed against their ears, they look a sombre bunch. But Doune Castle got it right, with Python’s own Terry Jones leading the lost through the various rooms, espousing on ancient history as well as outlining how and where the fake door was installed for the part in The Holy Grail with the guard who can’t seem to understand the simple instruction: “stay here, and make sure HE doesn’t leave.”

Vital in bringing history to life are the quality of the story as well as the confidence and talent of the storyteller, and in this case, both are brilliant. Although I reckon Jones could make the history of soup sound enthralling.

So there you have it. Doune Castle: stunning, sturdy, and very, very silly.

Postcards from Sheigra

This is where the road ends, past Kinlochbervie and the tiny villages of Oldshoremore and Blairmore. You can ease your car over the rough single track, open the gate and drive over the shorn green fields to park within sight of the sea, the sandy beach dropping down to the water like a wide, inviting plank.

Not far back down the road is the start of the four-mile trail that would have led you to the spectacular Sandwood Bay, but if it is already early evening and the weather is promising to turn, this is the time to smile and stop for a little wild camping.

The wind pelts you as you try to spot the oyster catcher that is skulking the shoreline. The gusts drive into your ears as every third wave forgets to be tender and crashes up the beach. Everything about the place is divided between fragile beauty and raw, energetic destruction. A tower of sand stands like an ancient monument in miniature, as grain-by-grain the nearby stream pulls it down. Near the water, the tumbled beauty of a pile of seaweed is the result of a particularly violent surge from the sea.

It is all so perfect. You share your campsite with the sheep, who look like Kindergarten constructions of cotton balls and toothpicks. In cartoon fashion they run up and down the hills and head butt each other playfully before taking off again.

The chill makes the sky ache with blue, and the tender wisps of cloud that tear around the frame of the beach look like something a fairground candy maker would create. But you have been facing the sea for so long, you have forgotten that the horizon exists in every direction. You turn around…

…to see the storm bulging like an angry genie, its dark belly hunkered beneath mountainous shoulders, dwarfing the village beneath it.

Inside this monster is the magic that will stretch time, making the night last longer than any night before or since. It is the kind of storm that will wash everything clean, scrub the last remnants of life from old scattered shells.

But there are a few minutes yet. You turn your back on the aproaching gale and gaze out at the sun-drenched sea, making believe that summer really could last forever.