The soul of a single malt

Scottish people, known to be a bit touchy on occasion, sometimes wonder if that customary attitude of jocular condescension displayed towards their country by, in particular, the nearest neighbours, does not disguise something like envy.

Jealousy would be forgivable: as a brand, Scotland has all the trimmings: the scenery is fabulous in what Alex Salmond likes to call ‘the undisputed home of golf’, the beef and raspberries first-rate, the knitwear coveted around the globe. And as for delightful cultural inessentials, what other country of comparable or of any size can boast such a collection of instantly recognisable and authentic national signifiers?

The Royal Mile hawkers do their best to turn tartan to tat and to make Muzak out of the old, old music but when faced with the real thing, the massed pipes and drums marching past in full fig, who can resist? Likewise the ceilidh: neither granny nor toddler can dance it and leave the floor glum.