The Best Kind of Lonely

Last month, seeking the immersive Scotland experience, I had haggis for the first time and Covid for the third time. I can say with authority: haggis is better than Covid.

The haggis was on purpose. We were in the lovely Kilchrenin Inn, a back-of-beyond place between Oban and Inveraray that represented my one serious planning misfire of the whole trip. Turns out, the remote Kilchrenin Inn is not the same as the smack-in-the-middle-of-Oban Kilchrenin House. The latter’s proprietor sets us straight.

“Let me guess,” I say, dismayed that after the long drive from Uig on the Isle of Skye, we weren’t near finished. “It’s a wee way up the road from here?” Everything in this country seems to be a “wee” this or a “wee” that.

“Not so wee,” he says, sadly, pointing vaguely east. We jump into our rented Vauxhall Mokka, a peppy little

vehicle that had helped us navigate left-side driving, tiny country roads, and hair-raising passing, all over Scotland. We drive deep into the countryside, darkness falling and midges swarming. (I believe midges are the same thing as American no see-ums; they blanket the Scottish Highlands this time of year.) We hope against hope that Kilchrenin Inn does exist.

Lucky for us, it does. And it is lovely and welcoming. When I push through the door of the pub, I hear my name. “Elizabeth, is it?” calls the proprietor, who is also the bartender. “Glad ye made it. We were about to close the kitchen. Would ye be needin’ a wee bite?” I am relieved and touched. I realize later that Kilchrenin Inn, the biggest structure in a village with about six houses, has just three rooms. Not hard to figure out who is missing among that night’s lodgers. Still, he is friendly and warm. And after the misfire, I appreciate him.

The next morning I asked Fiona, our equally friendly server, about getting some haggis. “Ye sure, now?” she asked, dishing up the ridiculously hearty Scottish breakfasts that seem to be standard here—eggs, bacon or sausage, potatoes, tomatoes, toast, black and white pudding (another kind of sausage, the “black” variety of which gets its color from animal blood.) Can the locals really eat this way every day?

“I drank Guinness in Ireland,” I reply. “I need to eat haggis in Scotland.” She smiles, probably guessing the truth. I didn’t really want to eat haggis. I just wanted to be able to say I ate it.

“I prefer the black puddin’ m’self,” she offers.

“No,” I insist, stubborn Yank that I am. “It’s gotta be haggis.”

“I’ll bring you a wee side,” she says. `

Haggis is a practical food. Made of sheep’s heart, liver and lungs, it used to be cooked in an animal stomach with spices and oats. It is thought to be an ancient dish, good and hearty for after the hunt. As it uses all parts of the animal, it’s also thrifty. Which is kind of on-brand for the Scots.

I take a (wee?) bite. It’s good! It tastes like savory spices and chews like oats. I guess technically it is “offal”. But honestly, is it any worse than an American hot dog? Haggis has inspired literature: “Nice seeing your honest, chubby face; Great chieftain of the sausage race!” So begins Robert Burns’ Address to a Haggis. How could the Scots not make it their national food?

The Covid part of immersive Scotland was less fun and less intentional. We arrive in Edinburgh on a Friday afternoon and are immediately swallowed up by the biggest crush of humanity I have ever seen. It is festival time

—The Edinburgh Festival, the Fringe Festival, the Tattoo (which has nothing to do with body art and much to do with kilts, bagpipes and marching displays of military might.) We stash the car in a garage—it will be useless in this crush—and walk everywhere. The Royal Mile is jammed with tourists and locals, street artists, live performances, marching bands. We make the obligatory walk from Edinburgh Castle, seat of Scottish power since the 11th century, down to Holyrood Palace, the British Royal residence in Scotland, soaking it all in.

That night, we walk to the Churchill Street Theater, about an hour away from our hotel (buses and taxis are also useless in crowds this big). We are treated to one of the best theater performances I have ever seen: Dimanche, a powerful French production about climate change that has lots of mime, puppetry, physical humor and audio-visual effects, but not one line of dialogue.

Following Dimanche, we walk 20 minutes back toward town to the Traverse Theatre and see Thrown, another thought-provoking piece about women Highland Games wrestlers—an examination of gender,

race, and national identity. After the two productions, hungry, we stop by a street stand that specializes in potatoes and sports a sign: Exercise? I thought you said extra fries! We walk by the Castle, high on Castle Rock, with its bagpipes blaring and fireworks lighting up the sky.

The evening is magical. I ignore the tickle in my throat.

In the morning, the tickle is worse and I am congested. Having carried those Covid tests in our luggage, I decide in an abundance of caution to use one. In about five seconds, that dastardly second pink line shows up. I hide out in the hotel room for the rest of the day, and send Cal off to see the third theater production by himself

that night. I don’t feel too terrible physically. But I am peevish, feeling robbed of my second night of theater and another plunge into the astounding color of Edinburgh at festival time.

My Scottish Covid was mild and quick—way easier than my American versions. And it happened at a good time, when it was fairly easy to self-isolate. The next morning, we head north to St. Andrews, Inverness and ultimately, the glorious Isle of Skye, hermetically sealed in our little Vauxhall Mokka.

For the rest of our time in Scotland, I need to avoid people, to my great regret. Interactions with people are the beating heart of any immersive experience. It pains me not to be able to strike up conversations in the pubs and on the streets, with anybody willing to tell me about their town, their life, their view of Americans. But there are wondrous compensations to be had.

And so, we immerse ourselves in the land --- the lochs, the mountains, the waterfalls, the sea, the sky. Scotland has a wild, craggy, more primitive beauty than the gentle green of Ireland. We embrace it all, tracing a counterclockwise circle of the country. The Isle of Skye is a particularly haunting kind of place. We spend two days in a remote cottage on its windswept north coast, wandering misty moors and dreaming of Wuthering Heights. “We have more hairy coos than people,” says one shopkeeper in Portree, referring to the cows with bangs that wander all over the island.

Maybe it’s because we were on our own in Scotland, as opposed to the guided tour in Ireland. Maybe it’s because I was literally isolating myself. But Scotland seems a lonely place. This is ironic after the crush of Edinburgh, but it's true. Scotland is lonely, in the best possible way. The kind of lonely that soothes your soul and fills you up. The kind of lonely that makes you think about your place in the wider world, and wonder about lives different from your own.

The kind of lonely that makes you understand: it is possible to approach each day as an act of creation. Creation of art, of stories, of connections, of possibilities.

I think, in the end, this was the Scotland I was meant to see.

And no. Cal never got Covid.