Pitlochry

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Pitlochry is possibly the only place on planet Earth where you can buy a bowl of 'Haggis, Neeps and Tatties' soup. A liquid Burns Supper. It's not  a traditional soup passed down the generations from Pictish times, but more a piece of gastronomic tourist tat that would rival the deep-fried Mars bar. It is a soup that says everything about the town, exemplifying its character and role as both a feeding station and a provider of tartan knick-knacks for the tourists, of which there are plenty. I would not be surprised to arrive in Pitlochry many years hence to find the main street replaced by a 500 metre-long feeding-trough where visitors could simply dook their head and take their fill of some heederum-hoderum gloop (and if anyone knows what 'heederum-hoderum' means, or even how to spell it, please let me know).  But, of course, the main thing about Pitlochry is that it is surrounded by the sort of awe-inspiring scenery for which Scotland is famous. There are hills, there are mountains, there are heather-clad slopy bits, leaping salmon and soaring eagles, and midges that drop from trees on ropes to suck you dry of all bodily fluids. But don't let that put you off. I think if I were to say but one thing that was not frivolous, to make you see how special Pitlochry actually is, it would be this: in my little 1920s guide book to Scotland, there is a small piece of heather that has been placed inside by a traveller long ago. It is the only piece of heather, and it has been placed at the Pitlochry page. That's how special Pitlochry really is. A place you will want to remember forever.