Bread

BREAD

  By Stephen Brown

  Copyright 2012 Stephen Brown

  Also available in Paperback. See author website for details

  https://www.thestephenbrown.co.uk/

  For

  Douglas Adams

  A genius 1952 – 2001

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Contents

  The Beginning

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Chosen Charity

  THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

  It is early spring, and my first impressions of Scotland have been beautiful. Despite the torrential rain and howling, relentless winds - or perhaps partly because of them - the whole place exudes a certain freshness that sings to the soul made stale by city life. There is an ever-present, timeless quality that is difficult to describe; like a watch that has had the hour and minute hands removed - only the second hand tick-tick-ticking resolutely away. An imprecise, immeasurable time, unrelated to any fixed points of reference that simply passes inevitably and relentlessly towards who knows what.

  Lately I have found my attention being drawn towards Scotland in a variety of faint but insistent ways. My dreams have been haunted by hazy images of thick-bearded highlanders, the blue and white flag of St Andrew waving continually in my peripheral vision; in my thoughts, wind battered mountains and long, low lochs have been vying for my attention in ways which would have a group of surrealist painters fighting hand over fist to get down on canvas.

  What’s more, these influences have not been limited to my sleeping, but have carried over with alarming prevalence into my everyday, waking world: on the television I have noticed an inundation of Scotsmen and women - news reporters, spokespeople being interviewed, politicians (they’re all bloody Scottish, every one of them), doctors, game show hosts - an unstoppable tide it would seem.

  In fact, the only thing that could possibly bring more attention to our northern neighbours would be if their national football team was to actually win a match, but that is so unlikely it has shot through the realms of impossibility and burst out the other side.

  It’s not just a recent thing - for several months now I have had these nagging feelings, tugging me inexorably in the direction of the Borders and beyond. It is similar in many respects to the tweaking of a long forgotten memory, yet I am sure that it can’t be, as I have never been further north than Chester.

  I had come to thinking, what can be so special about all those thistles and glens that is strong enough to distract me from my day to day life? What is it about all that rugged coastline and the splattering of tiny, fragmented islands that have been sneezed from the nose of Caledonia that allures me so much? How can I have become so addicted to Scotland?

  Anyway, there it is and here I am. Finally, after a long, drawn out winter of speculation I have made the decision to come up here and find out once and for all. It is my intention to learn where all things Scottish come from. How all the kilts and bagpipes and all that sort of stuff actually came into being. The origins of Scottishness and how the nation then evolved from there.

  Is that my mission in life, my raison d’être? Is that why I am now here in Scotland, to carry out my life’s true purpose? Perhaps it is too ambitious; a too all-embracing task for one man (especially me) to complete; maybe I’ll be forced to leave an unfinished legacy for others to continue after my death.

  Who knows, but I’m here now, so I can make a start at least.

  My first port of call is here in Skye, or ‘Skye’ as the locals call it, just off the rugged north-western coast. In the mouth of the beautiful Loch Alsh there is an island, over which a bridge has been built connecting Skye up with the rest of the mainland. Legend has it that the very first haggis was conceived, prepared and eaten there, on the ‘wee small’ island of Eilean Ban.

  On the site of this supposed historical event there now stands a hotel, huge and impressive. It is a five star affair, catering for conferences, functions and Americans more than anything. I am staying just down the road in the Loch and Quay, a small family run place - it was apparently the present man of the house who thought up the inspirational title. I see him at the beginning and end of every day collapsed in a small rowing boat with a few empty bottles of Glen Fiddich as sleeping partners. Such a shame, a wasted talent like that.

  The story goes that there were two villages - fishing villages, both relying heavily on the multitude of squid that used to visit the loch all year round. The happy coexistence of these villages was unfortunately brought to an end when they became embroiled in a dispute: long, long ago a Mr Gavin Glenragh accused his neighbour Colin McArum of cutting his nets. This bitter feud lasted seven whole generations.

  Many hideous acts of vandalism were carried out by both sides over the years, until a deal was finally struck by William Donley Glenragh and Colin McArum - a descendant, not the same man. He would have had to have been an immortal, if it was the same Colin, and there are apparently very few immortals now living on the west coast of Scotland (rumour has it they have all moved to Zimbabwe for reasons known only to themselves).

  The deal came with the proclamation that both villages would stop fishing entirely and they would all eat badgers. How the present day Haggis has evolved from this is quite beyond me, but I intend to find out.

  There were several conferences going on at the Eilean Ban Hotel where my search started yesterday. A large contingent from Interpol were discussing whether there was any point in them existing as an organisation anymore; there was a sizable group of Swiss pocket-watch manufacturers wondering whether or not to call it a day and go digital, and there was also a lone hitch hiker from Swansea who thought he had heard that Status Quo were playing a concert here (I’ve checked and they’re actually playing in Redcliff, deep in the heartland of Zimbabwe at the moment, to a group of fans who have been with them ‘from the start...’)

  There was one which particularly caught my eye however, going on in the MacPlimsol Hall. It seemed on a smaller scale, with only a handful of people inside gathered around the stage, where a man in his mid fifties was speaking. His light rimmed spectacles and grey hair would have made him look distinguished, had it not been for his grin, which was in between that of the Cheshire Cat and a used car salesman.

  Looking at the set up through the glass panel in the door, I noticed that upon the raised platform he was speaking from there stood a large blackboard with ominously familiar sigils scrawled across it. Directly across from this on the opposite side of the stage was one of the more modern white boards decorated with yet more hieroglyphics.

  Dominating his background however, was the inevitable OHP, or overhead projector, that we all learned to hate whilst going through school and college - I dare say they used the accursed things at University too, but who would notice? The only reason any student attends any lectures at Uni is because they tend to be secure and relatively quiet places to sober up or come around from whatever they were on the night before. I was intrigued. What was going on in there?

  Outside the conference halls in the plush, carpeted corridor, sandwich boards had been positioned outside the doors, advertising the theme of the lectures going on inside. A cursory glance was enough to make me choke in amazement. I could not believe my eyes! Surely not?

  A second look was required.

  But it was true! The bare faced cheek of the man! No wonder the contents of the black and white boards had seemed so familiar. Professor Alan Humphries, the speaker inside, was claiming – quite unashamedly - that “Maths Can Be Fun!”

  I was in half a mind to nip back into the Interpol Conference and insist they come and arrest this man immediately. Something held me back however. I never minded maths at school to be honest, more for the fact that it teaches
your brain how to think than for all the swirly squiggles and formulae you have to go through.

  No, if this man was actually here in this highly respected hotel, talking to actual people and was actually being paid for it, there must be something worth listening to, surely.

  I entered the hall as quietly as possible - which was not very, as I fell down the two short steps immediately inside the door. Professor Humphries glared at the cause of this interruption over his podium like a judge, before taking a casual sip from his glass of Sparkling Skye Spring water (manufactured and bottled in Bristol) and motioned for me to please take a seat.

  For several minutes he droned on in what has be to said was an incredibly boring voice, and I could see heads dropping in front of me, as the gathered ensemble tried to stay awake. It was almost hypnotic; his voice became a monotonous dull throbbing sound at the back of my consciousness, and the algebraic symbols began to swim and dance on the boards in front of me. The room was incredibly hot and stuffy, and it finally became like a despised relative’s slide show as the lights in the hall dimmed to nothing. A single spotlight focused on the boards at the back of the stage was all that was left. The voice mumbled on...

  I was vaguely aware shortly before it happened that the Professor placed a pair of mirrored sunglasses on. The thought crossed my mind that this was an odd thing to do in a darkened room. Suddenly though, the spotlight was cut dead and several strobe lights flickering and flashing about is all I remember, until I came around with the rest of the audience several hours later.

  The hotel has of course tried to hush the incident up, but apart from the embarrassment and anger caused by the ordeal, the only things any of us seems to have lost is any food we were carrying (I had a pack of Rolos taken from me) and also neck ties from the gentlemen and shoes from the women. Strange. Luckily I had no tie on, so it was only my sweet tooth which suffered.

  I have decided to put my Scottish research on hold, in order to try and find out what had happened here, and why? The whole thing is quite mystifying and besides - it seems far more interesting than what I was doing originally.

  ***