In the seedy Grassmarket quarter of Edinburgh's Old Town on a cold and bitter January morning in 1829, Sir Walter Scott watched in horror as a frenzied mob bayed for the blood of a wretch called Burke who walked to the gallows for foul play he engaged in with another vile creature called Hare.
Scotland's most notorious Irishmen ever - William Burke and William Hare - had smothered to death at least 15 wayfarers after luring them to a lodging house and plying them with drink. A disreputable surgeon named Knox had offered them the then princely sum of £7.10s for each cadaver they brought him. Burke was hanged; Hare escaped the noose by turning king's evidence.
Italian food
At the far end from the site of the old gallows in the gentrified and bohemian Grassmarket of today is a busy little restaurant called Momma's, which specialises in fine Italian fare - and recently won an award as the UK's no. 1 pizzeria. I was reminded of the advice of a hard-boiled interpreter of the US urban wilderness, the writer Nelson Algren: "Never eat in a place called Mom's. Never play cards with a man named Doc. And never sleep with a woman who has more problems than you do." Nevertheless, my companions and I feasted mightily. (I draw the line at cards.) It was my first visit to Scotland and I had a memorable time in Edinburgh, Glasgow, the Lowlands and, in particular, the hauntingly beautiful Highlands. And there were some surprises.
While travelling around the Highlands, the historic fastness of Scotland's last great Gaelic king, Macbeth, it was strangely moving to find that many memorials - to be seen in nearly every town and village - to soldiers from local regiments who lost their lives in the two World Wars had inscriptions in Gaelic, some of them on magnificent Celtic crosses. The "Ceud Mile Failte" signs were welcome in equal measure.
It might also seem strange to some Irish people that in the last general election in Scotland far more Protestants voted nationalist than did Catholics (most of whom are of Irish extraction). Or that Catholics overwhelmingly voted unionist. How so? Well, Catholics largely support Labour, a party of the union, rather than the Scottish Nationalist Party, which advocates independence. The SNP often cites the economic success of the modern Irish State as offering a good model for an independent Scotland.
Burns Night
This Thursday, Scots of all political and religious persuasions, and none, all over the world, will celebrate the birthday of their national poet, Robbie Burns, with the traditional supper of haggis, bagpipes and whisky. Should you ever ramble in the rural Lowlands among lush woodlands, undulating drumlins and glimmering tea-brown streams, you will easily appreciate why Robbie Burns was so enchanted by its spell.
Apart from dramatic scenery and sturdy Grampian granite houses, other abiding memories of Scotland I brought home were of politeness, friendliness and warmth. (And for those of you who miss those grand old Dublin pubs where conversation prevailed, you'll be glad to hear they are surviving and thriving in Glasgow and Edinburgh.) I also experienced a strange, but abiding, sense of familiarity about places and people. But perhaps that shouldn't be surprising given the close cultural bonds that have been nurtured by population movements between the two countries over thousands of years.
On returing home, however, I was surprised when a couple of people asked if I had encountered any difficulties because of my nationality. All I could say was an emphatic au contraire, having received only positive attentions - though there was one mildly alarming moment.
Rangers anthem
This happened in a large social club up a dark lane in the wrong part of a small town in the heart of Ayrshire. All evening I had been treated with great courtesy and friendliness by the hardy revellers, yet during pauses for karaoke they saw nothing odd in chorusing lustily to the Glasgow Rangers' football club anthem Simply the Best - with some extra and rather impolite exhortations regarding the Holy Father - and later, somewhat incongruously, singing along to some song by Dundalk's finest, the Corrs.
When the raucous Rangers' song had ended, the tired and emotional young lady who led the singing was taken aside by the fragrant manageress and given a verbal yellow card. After receiving this caution the subdued little minx sidled up to me - the lonesome Fenian! - and simpered: "It wash onlee a shong." Naturally, I concurred. When in Rome . . .
Incidentally, Momma's in Edinburgh was so busy the night we called that the coowner's wife, Caitriona Mackey, came in to help out. She hails from outside the village of Johnstown in Co Kilkenny - as did my grandfather and namesake.