Restaurant Reviews: Plantuguese Bristol

 

I am from a family of excellent cooks and chefs, so when I am away and I step into a restaurant for the first time, I have three rules:

1. Eat alone if you want to reflect on and savour the food. A slow, solitary meal is a truly meditative experience if it is a good restaurant with unusual variations. (If it is not, then yes, you will want company to take your mind off of what you are eating.)

2. Ask the wait staff to choose for you - without telling you. Seasoned wait staff know what is good there. They have worked there for years, and know the chef's specialties and expertise. (Young wait staff, however, may just bring you a 'fry up'.)

3. Order your own drink. If the meal goes sideways, a good glass of red never does.

Plantuguese is a vegan bistro, in a central student district of Bristol. Given the name, I thought it would be more Mediterranean-tasting fare, yet it was a variety of flavourful foods mimicking typical mains. I ordered a glass of 'green wine' (on tap), and asked the wait staff to order for me. They were surprised, "I have never had anyone do that!" and went to consult with the chef. There were two staff for every patron, yet I believe several had just started learning because one wasn't sure what was in a custard. 

A basket of warm traditional bread, pão de áqua arrived drizzled in oil. Bread is a comfort food; an energy source as old as time, and this one was saying, 'Relax, it's the end of the day. Enjoy me.'

Next to arrive were the 'Croquetes de Carne'. I am still laughing at this name because, yes, they look like 'carne' - three small sausages staring up at me from the plate like a dic-pic. However the taste was wonderful, probably black bean curd and spices, a bit like a deep-fried haggis takeaway; in fact, if you served it with two done up as 'bon-bons de Carne', then you would have...well you get the pic.

The 'Bitoque com Ovo Estrelado', grilled Lion's Mane with a vegan fried egg on top (very Argentine!) was the main, and mushrooms do seem to be Plantuguese's main protein base for the meals. I love my fungi, but I do believe that each mushroom has its raison d'être if it is being used as a meat substitute. No, imo, Lion's Mane does not work well as a 'steak', Bitoque - for 'steak' and 'burger' alternates you definitely need a Portobello, perhaps a Chick of the Woods depending upon the size and cut. Lion's Mane is absolutely a 'pulled pork' proxy. They did get the Button mushrooms right for 'scallops' or 'scampi' alternates; a Cremini is nice for shellfish too. Enoki is wonderful instead of mince. But here we come to a common problem with vegan cooking: Why are we still planning meals around a Medieval piece of 'meat'? Have we not evolved eating approaches since the drumstick-on-the-plate? Why not centre the meal around a 'taste'? Or a 'presentation'? Why expend so much creative effort just for an artificial alternative (aa rather than ai)?

To finish, Plantuguese's sobremesa of Nata was warm and a delicate custard; paired with a filó-like crust, each ending bite was a satisfying, tasty meal out. A good ending to a meal of thoughts.

Restaurant Reviews: River House Stirling

 Occasionally you will dine in a place where the food is fine, but the atmosphere elevates it to another level. River House in Stirling is such a site.

In the shape of a traditional Crannog, a round dwelling house on water, it is situated in what use to be a pond, but is now filled with reeds and wild birds. Inside there are lights reflecting off of the trees in the distance and warm fireplaces, lights and flowers in surround -

A Midsummer Night's Dream whenever you go - the food is secondary to the well stocked feast of colourful cocktails, coffees and puddings. Enter the circular Crannog, rest and fill yourself with the space. 🌼

Restaurant Reviews: The Inver

When a fresh water river meets the salty sea, the result is a savoury Tang of dishes 

Set in the scenic view of old castle Lachlan, foodie tastes evolve out of the Inver's geography.

Outside, a series of cool, fresh water rivers run from meaty hills straight into salty sea lochs;

And inside, so do the colliding flavours provided by Pam Brunton & Rob Latimer, beginning with -

Shrub aperitifs with sweet mint and berries mingling with apple cider vinegar, preparing your palate for the tempo to come.

A starter of crispy, warm pastry alongside salty prosciutto is topped with savoury oyster mushrooms;

then a main of tender sea bass sits on a foundation of reduced grapes and al dente carrageen fennel, the mild licorice taste like a sorbet between bites of meaty fish.

As you are enjoying the view, the rivers, the sea bay, the castle itself (a battle ground), you are reminded of how invigorating a meal of contrasting tastes can be!

3 Dogs & a raven

 It was the crow I saw first; flew right over my head,

my grandmother's messenger.

It landed on the fence post and looked back at me.

I walked on.

The deerhound was next, in Dunlop.

"Is that one of Nell's deerhounds?" I said.

"You know Nell?" The man looked at me in amazement.

"Yes, my last dog, Torquil was from Nell. I couldn't get another after he died."

"Her mother was one of Nell's," he commented.

The dog put her nose into my hand, and then rested her nose in my neck, just like my boy.

She whined after me when I walked away.

A beagle was next, like Chaucer, my first dog. With me through all the pain of my 20s.

It ran away from its owner and came to rubbing its shoulders against my leg.

I looked down. Stroked its back, calmly held its chest.

What a support she was for me; what a good dog, 

...'right to the end.' Like the song.

"Sorry, I don't know what got into her," a middle-aged woman walking along the beach said.

She dragged her away; the dog glanced back.

Next was the lab. Black. Like Macbeth.

Sat still. Watched each step. My eyes. 

An honour guard, of old memories.

dear ones.

Dùthchas: Grand Estates & Fairytales

 Dùthchas: Grand Estates & Fairytales

Those who know me, ken I am no fan of excessive personal wealth or houses larger than one needs. I am, however, a lover of a good story, be it fairy tale or life rebellion, I love a tale that connects a person to a personal journey.

And so, there is something about grand old listed houses like Chatsworth, with her long lanes, rolling meadows filled with sheep and small woods of stream and deer and mossy oaks. There is a connection there to all of the heroines of my own upbringing. Jane Austen's characters walking across fields, lanes and peaks to build relationships; Byron, King Arthur, William Wallace or Don Quixote crossing counties on horseback using the land as that constant road to change. Be it, The Canterbury Tales or Rob Roy - it is that travel over hill and moor that carries us through the plot.

Each time I sit under a mossy oak by a river, or traverse fields towards a small village, I, too, am a part of that long, ancestral story of walking. Under my feet are the past footprints of drovers and workers; lovers and mourners. These footpaths and holloways connect me deeply to ancient links. It is not just the estates, these shared stories bring us closer to Life's truths. And it is not only about telling stories - but also about paying attention to silences. 🕊️

Dùthchas: Evolving like nettles

 

Like many gardeners, weeding nettles out of the vegetables on a Hebridean croft is an ongoing and frustrating task. They grow with little or no nutrients, in dry or wet weather, and can sprout and mature in a couple of days. 'Deanntagach' in Gàidhlig, or 'flesh soup', they sting and attack predators. They are formidable survivors. My red-spotted arm this morning is proof of my respect for my weekly gardening opponent.

In this chapter of Dùthchas, lessons from the land, the nettle's ability to blend in, assimilate and connect, much like humans, has helped them evolve. The nettle has learned to send out offspring and envoys to other rhizomes and roots. It makes friends. It connects. It shares resources and fuel, and expands its network. The nettle learns to fit in, and live in a very diverse ecosystem. As a human, they would get along wonderfully in a cosmopolitan, urban landscape. And when their roots surface, they look like grass, or perhaps chives, or a carrot - they look like any other recognised member of the garden. It's difficult to tell, really, that nettle is there until they are already entrenched and a part of your garden ecosystem. You can't get rid of them without losing the community of other plants that are so loved. And so, we put them in soup, and lotions.

As a Hebridean, you have to respect the nettle. It stays. It is communal; it puts down roots, and is a proper, nutrient-sharing part of the community. The reasons humans survived beyond the ice age was by establishing a connected, supportive community. Today, when we think about the environment and the circular economy, we can look at the nettle. What better example of connecting roots, and sharing resources within one geographical community is there than the nettle?

So the next time you find yourself in the garden battling a weed, think of the nettle: our premier example of survival by connection.

Ancestors of Declining Numbers

 

I'm living in a time where the institutions I serve are declining. Post-pandemic economies are decreasing, and budget shortages have forced many lecturers to accept severances. It has me reflecting on the story of St. Kilda, our island to the West. 

There is a core capacity needed to sustain any community. St. Kilda, which is in the middle of the Atlantic, survived with average populations just over 100 because there were enough community members to farm, shear and weave wool for clothes, gather birds' eggs and meat, and repair and build housing and shelter when needed. There were enough people to protect the survival of the isle. Yet, within a generation, from the mid-1800s to 1930, disease brought by visitors and youth emigrating to the mainland brought a shortage in the population to a critical low. There were no longer the numbers to store the food, clothes and housing needed to sustain the people. At 36 residents, the island was abandoned to the National Trust.

What is the vital number needed for a university to survive? At which point will dwindling lecturers herald the end to higher education and research? A few have suggested that any sustainable research project or group needs a skeleton team of four (see below); but what of a school? Is it 4? 36? more?

In ancestral language research, Joshua Fishman posited that a language has reached endangered status when it is disrupted, and no longer being transferred through to the next generation. Certainly that happened in St. Kilda, skills and work and culture were lost within a person's life. These are the lessons our cultural history has taught us: there is a point of no return. Who is your heart? What number supplies that heart? Will you know when that capacity is at risk?

Dùthchas: Ancestral ripples

Two ducks were foraging on the loch this equinox. Quietly resting, paddling below the surface. Their reflection could be seen all along the shoreline as the sun rose, and yet, when they poked their beaks below the tide to find food, a ripple rang out from their bodies along the length of the loch, and washed up on shore. They were only two. They were barely moving, and yet circles marked their presence.

A ripple is a common metaphor for how a small act can have gradually larger impacts. We see this all the time today in politics and war: a single sentence having devastating consequences for whole communities and nations. The 2010 eruption of Eyjafjallajökull caused air travel to cease in the UK, 1200 miles away, due to the volcanic ash and sulfur dioxide. Smoke from British Columbia's 2023 forest fires rippled out to Toronto, 3000 miles away. And waves can also have more personal, ancestral reverberations over generations and time.

My seanmhair use to say that the dreams we have of a familiar place, a familiar house, the same [unknown] people or event were not made up dreams at all, but the memories of ancestors passed down. That is, when I was dreaming, I was reliving the memories of my ancestors (although not understanding that this is what I was experiencing.) A great, great, great grandmother of my own was passing along support, life knowledge and instincts to survive in even the most basic of human interactions. I was the beneficiary of all those years of loving and learning.

 Today, with epigenetics, we find that this is true. Trauma that has occurred seven generations before is passed along through DNA cells to warn descendants of danger, or to allow them the innate understanding of love and belonging to a place. That is what the ripples from these two ducks teach us. The ducks, like our ancestors, may not be with us on the shore, but they are still connecting with us through the waves of time. Be watchful, and thankful, of those that have passed before you - they have honoured you with their gifts of understanding. And know that, when you go, the memories you contain, from this land, carry on in the continuum of time.

Dùthchas: Deep breathing to regain your wind energy

 

 As I write this, there is a gèile shaking my windows at about 65mph, definately over the national speed limit. In Orkney, where there is more of a Viking Norrœna lineage, they would say, 'it's blowing a hoolie.'

Gales are common in the Western Isles, and will usually cancel ferries and last for two to three days at a time. At least one trampoline can be seen rolling across the A857, unless it's bin day. Yet within this common Hebridean experience lies a lesson as well: breathe.

The Gèile is a long distance runner, it has to pace itself, draw breath, inhale energy to continue. If you listen carefully, every other minute there is a calming of the wind. As if it is pausing to consume more air; breathing in; hesitating before huffing it. It's a very human experience; a connection we can all make to our elemental selves. 

The ebb and flow of the wind is not unlike our other island element - the sea. Standing at the seashore, the waves roll in, breathe out. Then, they retreat, breathe in. Out and in. Out and in. In steady, consistent, giant waves - the lungs of the world - on display within the element from which we all evolve.

Singers use breath to fill a room with the sound of the song, puirt à beul. It is the source of vigour. We can use this wind. Stress and anxiety, at work or at school, can be slowed simply by breathing. Breathing slowing in through the nose, collecting new oxygen energy, and out through the mouth, 'releasing the bad', liberating the stress. I always envision Michael Clark's portrayal of John Coffey in the Green Mile (1999) here. With one great breath he expels all of the evil, all of the bad feelings and sickness of the world from his body and he is fine. Pure energy in, and powerful waves out.

In and out. In and out. In and out. In this way, we are breathing with the Earth. Pausing to inhale when we need energy -

and finding our 'second wind' to keep our power moving.  Be like the gèile: breathe. 

Dùthchas: Stone markers of desecration

    

There is something about rock foundations and mountains that transcend our lives. For millenia, Eastern temples have been built in mountains; people climb mountains to find wisdom, the answers to Life's questions. Mountain pathways are the source of pilgrimage for walkers around the World; drovers walked their holloways for centuries; and they are a visual representation of the original foundation from which all life flows, something indestructible. 

Witnessing something that has survived seismic shifts, wars, migration, flood and famine is to behold a solid part of the world. Holding on to something still, something steadfast feels safe. That is something very rare in 2025 as I write this. I think that is why so many visitors to the Outer Hebrides and Scotland stop at stone ruins, take photos, and reflect.

There is a stone croft house just down the road from my own. Not a cyclist or walker passes without a photo. It overlooks Loch Erisort on the Isle of Lewis - decaying corrugated iron roof, partially caved in, and a tree sprouting through the chimney. Visitors find such ruins aesthetic, an artistic expression of the land. But for us, they are reminders of violence, starvation and death. The stone markers of a family who once lived and loved in the village, now gone because of poverty. Those houses are the graveyards of families who were torn from their homes to make way for sheep. The household ruins depict lives lost. These photos are bones across the landscape of the Hebrides, a reminder of the desecration of colonisation.

And yet, still, the stone remains - our Earth's origins; witness to our genesis.