Scotland: Highland fling

Just the look of haggis is enough to put a lot of people off the delicacy. Photo / British Tourist Authority

It's more than a little unfair that the deep-fried Mars Bar became a symbol of Scottish cuisine. For a start, there is some documentary evidence that the concept is Australian - certainly the phrase first appeared in print there - and though it is up on the board in many Scottish "chippies", it seems to me quite likely that the reality arose in response to the urban myth. My impression is that Scots eat them in about the same numbers as New Zealanders eat muttonbird or paua.

But in the dining room of the Kirkwall Hotel on the biggest island of Orkney off the north coast of Scotland, I discovered deep-fried haggis.

Now to some that may seem like double jeopardy. Perhaps haggis itself is sufficient affront to the sensibilities. The Scots will always try and convince you it's an animal but it's a confection of minced heart, liver and lung of a sheep (collectively known as a sheep's "pluck") mixed with onion, spices and oatmeal and boiled for hours. Traditionally, the casing was the unfortunate animal's own stomach, though synthetic casings are standard now.

Those of a more delicate disposition have probably winced and looked away already, which is a shame because they are going to miss the best part.

The spicy, aromatic mince, extracted from its casing, is formed into balls which are deep-fried in batter. They are served on a creamy mound of clapshot, which is another Orkney specialty: a buttery, chive-laced mash of "neaps and tatties" (turnips and potatoes), which are de rigueur as an accompaniment for haggis. A dark, whisky gravy laps at the edges, so naturally the perfect accompaniment is a stiff shot of the local malt, Highland Park, the product of Scotland's northernmost distillery. It was enough to ward off any memory of the chill Arctic wind that had whipped across the North Sea and the largely treeless islands into the small settlement.

I had tried haggis before, at the deservedly legendary eatery The Ubiquitous Chip off the Byres Rd in Glasgow, and had been impressed. But here it was elevated to something else - an enchanting blend of the traditional paté, the vernacular cooking style (although the well-drained haggis balls were not greasy at all) and a white-linen environment.

In fact, I found it hard to go past haggis - "Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!" as Robbie Burns called it - in Orkney. One day I had it, locally handmade, for two meals: first, along with a similarly hearty wodge of black pudding, with the full Scottish breakfast in my B&B; and later in a beef-and-haggis lasagne at a small waterfront cafe. It would be wrong to say I'm crazy for the stuff - some versions can leave a film of lard on the roof of your mouth that is thick enough to constitute lunch - but it made sense somehow, as a way of eating that was in tune with where I was.

A mate of mine who's a bit of a foodie told a great joke once about Scottish food ("just like English food, but not quite as spicy"). But time has robbed that one-liner of accuracy. Certainly it is hard to get a decent cup of coffee in London or Edinburgh, never mind the smaller towns - though they do tea well in these places, with pots and tea leaves and other ancient paraphernalia - but in the 21st century Scottish cuisine is far from being a contradiction in terms. The country of five million is home to 14 Michelin-starred restaurants and it's not hard in any substantial town to find top-end dining - even if the prices are about twice what you'd expect to pay at home.