I don't like whisky, I don't like bagpipes and I didn't used to like Billy Bremner but I like Scotland. I used to like haggis very much before becoming vegetarian although was less impressed at a Bed & Breakfast place that the vegetarian option was fish pie. There is such a thing as a vegetarian haggis but that seems to miss the point.Of the tiny fraction of my life that has been spent outside of England, inevitably the most visits have been to nearby Wales, France and Scotland and I found no evidence for the racial stereotype of parsimoniousness north of the border and was met with the most generous hospitality each time. I'm not much of an admirer of nationalism of any kind and it would be better to define Scotland by its Scottishness rather than that it is 'not England' in much the same way that UKIP might benefit from celebrating the United Kingdom, by which many seem to mean 'England', rather than just 'not Europe'. But if the Nationalists don't want to be part of the UK, perhaps they could be re-branded as South West Norway. If you follow the lines of Loch Ness and the highlands one can see that geologically, the North Sea is a mere aberration in what would otherwise be a coherent land mass.
But I always had the impression that Scotland had a more rigorous education system, a clearer setting out of certain laws and a culture in which being a poet, a 'makar', was not something that needed excusing or regarded as marginal but was naturally a part of their lives. In England it is treated as 'highbrow' or a bit different and there would be a difficulty in assimilating the idea that Pat Nevin could appear on a quiz show about art while also being a professional footballer.
It's not all scenery and photogenic landscapes although even the cities have a doughty authority, from Arthur's Seat and the well-mannered architectural design of Edinburgh where Miss Jean Brodie speaks a finer English than anyone in England, or Glasgow's imposing necropolis. From the kingdom of Fife and the lilting accent of Kirkcaldy, one can move up the coast to the historic glamour of St. Andrews (sadly, to their slight demerit, the Scots are credited with the invention of golf) to Inverness, which is a hidden treasure, not far from where I picked some of the best food I've ever had, their raspberries. Down the west coast, Oban is an impressive gateway to Mull and the Western Isles by the formidable Caledonian MacBrayne ferries, to the haven of Iona, the legendary Fingal's Cave and all those places like Benbecula from the shipping forecast.
I believe that now the long, last stretch up to John O'Groats is economically not viable and is mainly there for cyclists and other End-to-End travellers to have to cover before arriving to find the John O'Groats Hotel is boarded up and there is a postcard shop and a small fleet of fishing boats in the harbour.
Scotland wouldn't be the only country with a romantic view of itself, nor without an abrasive element that finds itself a little too proud of being who they are. I was at Hampden Park for the match that marked the opening of the refurbished stadium when World Champions, France, were the guests who turned up with Thierry Henri, Laurent Blanc, Lilian Thuram and those casually took the hosts apart by two goals to nil. It was just my luck, having heard all the stories about the friendliness and sporting Scottish supporters to sit next to the only two exceptions to the rule. The racism, bile and hatred that came out of the little vermin and his girlfriend can't be repeated here but at the end, he turned to the French people sitting behind us and offered some kind words of congratulation. But for 90 minutes we had been invoked to stand up if you hated England, heard repeated choruses of how Edward I had been sent back 'tae think again' some 700 years earlier and Kevin Keegan was advised to cheer up, to the tune of Daydream Believer, despite being England manager.
But the storm-lashed islands that look so idyllic in better weather and the dreich cities on rainy days are home to an admirable resilience and clarity. On arriving in Edinburgh once (it might have been Glasgow) we were walking through a shopping precinct on Friday lunchtime and a man came flying backwards out of a pub door. Nobody seemed to mind. By 1 pm, it wasn't easy to find a spare table in the pub. It was hard to say if the weekend had begun early or if the previous ones had never ended. Nobody seemed too concerned that such a session followed by a Mars Bar in batter supper resulted in some English advice that life expectancy in some areas was less than 60. And I admire that attitude.
I admire the Old Man of Hoy; the last inhabitants of St. Kilda; Ochilview Park, home of Stenhousemuir FC, with its eponymous view of the Ochil Hills; Don Paterson, James Macmillan and the Jesus & Mary Chain.
On a coach excursion in Austria, the tour guide had to go through the bus checking the nationality of each of our party.
'Are you English?' 'Yes.'
'Are you English?' 'Yes.'
'Are you English?' 'No. I'm Scottish.'
Well, exactly.
