Page 75 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
Elle sat up and looked out of the grubby window at the dreary street. ‘I miss our little apartment with a view of Bergen Harbour. I could have stayed there forever with you.’
‘Me too. But we must remember that we are here out of necessity. In this country, I believe we are safe from German invasion. Britain’s military is strong and its people resilient.’ I took her hand and squeezed it hard. ‘I promise, my love, we will have our happy ending.’
Elle spent the afternoon writing a letter to Karine, and I took the opportunity to go exploring. Despite the weather, Inverness had a quaint charm to it. I tried to imagine the place in the height of a peacetime summer, bustling with Highland tourists, which helped my appreciation. I strolled down by the River Ness, which bisects the town and acts as a link between the North Sea and the famous monster-inhabited loch. On my route back to the inn I passed a myriad of little cafés, each claiming to servethe best Scottish breakfast in town. I dared look at a few of the menus, and saw that most came with a healthy offering of black pudding, which I understand is made of dried blood. The British do have strange tastes.
After Elle and I had posted her letter to Norway, we settled down in the bar of the Sheep Heid Inn for the evening. In contrast to our bedroom, the bar actually felt relatively cosy now the sun was setting. We were perched on an old wooden bench and stared at the hearty fire which was burning brightly in the grate. When it became dark outside, the barman began to hang up blackout blinds in case of an enemy air raid. I got up to assist him.
‘Thanks, pal,’ he said with a smile. ‘Can I get ye a whisky?’
I hesitated. The reader will be familiar with my reticence to drink alcohol. However, earlier that day I had been up to my thighs in the North Sea and had still not quite recovered from the cold. I decided that on this occasion, I would make an exception, due to the spirit’s famed warming properties.
The amber liquid was strong, but undeniably delicious. It had a pleasant mellowing effect on the constitution, and Elle and I enjoyed several glasses of different single malts that evening. The friendly barman, Hamish, clearly enjoyed educating two ‘French’ refugees on the intricacies of distillation, and why it was so superior to wine. I was worried justhow much I’d enjoyed the whisky. I made a mental note not to indulge myself again for a while.
The next few days were spent adapting to life in this new country. My observations were that its people, once their guard was let down, were friendly, welcoming and buoyant. The food, however, was proving a difficult hurdle to jump. The British diet seemed to consist almost entirely of meat, gravy and potatoes. Quite how they had so many famous athletes, I wasn’t entirely sure.
On our fifth night in Inverness, we went to dinner at a local tavern – or ‘pub’ as the British call them – called The Drovers Inn. There were many such pubs in Inverness, and to my untrained eye, they all appeared hugely similar. However, locals would beg to differ and staunchly defend their favourite. ‘The Drovers’ had been recommended by Hamish. Although not particularly big, it was full of character, with horse brasses and tartan hanging from nearly every wall. Behind the bar were a collection of pewter tankards with names etched on that belonged to the regulars. Naturally, I was able to spot a ‘Hamish’ amongst them.
Browsing the menu, I was excited to finally see haggis advertised. Hamish had told me it was the national dish, but when I asked him what itwasexactly, he had laughed and encouraged me to taste it before daring to ask. The tall, burly landlord came over to take our order.
‘I’d like to try the haggis, please,’ I said confidently, before deciding I wasn’t brave enough to go in blind. ‘But may I ask what it actually is?’
‘’Tis the liver, heart and lungs of a wee sheep,’ the landlord replied.
I recoiled slightly. ‘Oh, goodness... How is it presented?’ I enquired, genuinely wondering if I’d be able to stomach the sight of all that on a plate.
‘Dunnae worry yourself, it’s all wrapped up in the wee fella’s stomach!’ he said jovially.
That didn’t fill me with much confidence. ‘Does it come with anything else?’ I enquired.
‘Neeps and tatties,’ came the reply.
‘Neeps and tatties? I’m not quite sure I understand...’
‘Turnips and potatoes,’ said a deep, rich voice from the bar. A man, approximately fifty years of age, turned around and smiled at Elle and me at our corner table. Even though his hair was greying, his dark eyes and chiselled jawline made him handsome.
‘Oh, thank you very much, sir.’ I nodded at the man at the bar. ‘I’d like to order that, please.’
‘And for your filly there?’ the landlord asked.
‘My what?’
‘Your lady friend,’ said the man from the bar, now openly laughing. His accent was a clipped English, and he wore a bottle-green tweed suit.
‘I’ll have the soup, please,’ Elle said to the landlord.
‘As ye wish.’ He nodded, and slunk off to the kitchen with our order.
The Englishman from the bar made his way over to our table, and I noted that he had a pronounced limp. Setting his frothy beer glass down, he pulled up a stool. ‘The Scots only live next door to us English folk, but even I struggle to understand those thick accents sometimes!’ He stuck his hand out. ‘Archie Vaughan. Nice to make your acquaintance.’
‘Oh, hello,’ I said. ‘My name is Robert, and this is Eleanor.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she added.
Archie gave us a wide smile. ‘Charmed, I’m sure. Sorry, I’m probably being terribly rude. Do you mind if I join you for a drink?’
I glanced at Elle, who remained calm and returned his grin.‘Of course not,’ she replied, raising her glass of port and lemon.
‘Smashing!’ Archie cried. ‘Now tell me, with those most English of names, where did you pick up those unusual accents?’ He took a swig of his beer.
