Homo Neanderthalensis, The Isle of Skye, and Beeston (Nottingham): 50,000 years of food culture.

Somewhere in Europe, some 50,000 years ago, a group of twenty or so Neanderthals huddle together in a cave, generating a little warmth for each other against the bitter cold of the glacial ice-age landscape. They eat, perhaps in silence punctuated with the occasional grunt or guttural exclamation, or perhaps communicating with fully developed language; anthropologists have yet to determine the extent to which Homo Neanderthalensis had developed speech. From somewhere in the huddle, one of their number takes from their mouth, a partially chewed piece of food. Passing it across, the morsel is taken by another, who pops it into his own mouth and swallows it whole. This is an elderly and disabled member of the community.

Millennia later, anthropologists examined the ‘mans’ skeleton and discover extensive and long-standing skeletal injuries and deformations, which would have prevented the individual from contributing in any meaningful way to the survival of the group. Indeed, quite the reverse, as he had no remaining teeth and would have been unable to chew and therefore to extract sufficient nutrition from his food to survive. Yet survive he had, to a fairly considerable age. Hence they concluded, his food was presumably pre-chewed by his companions, allowing enough break-down to release sufficient nutrition to survive when subsequently swallowed. Not only would the elderly man have provided little in the way of contribution in such a brutal environment, he would have actually threatened the survival of the group, given he needed protection and assistance, and used up valuable food resources. Yet still, Neanderthal ‘cave-men’ clearly saw him as a valuable member of the community, to be cherished and cared for regardless.

Such examples underline the importance of food not only as a simple necessity of survival, but as a ritual which binds individuals together in a demonstration of group empathy and belonging, perhaps one of mankind’s key survival strategies; if you eat with us, you are of us. What greater motivation to put one’s self in danger to protect others when the need really comes?

If eating equals empathy, plenty was generated in our latest

road trip, because eat long and heartily we did! The origins of this jaunt lie in The Pottle of Blues, our favourite drinking-hole in Beeston, on the edge of Nottingham. Married couple Ralph and Jen, respectively a musician and an ex-English teacher, recently opened this fine establishment, catering to those with a love of music and good ale. Ralph and Laura seek out local micro-brewers and provide a rapidly rotating small selection of ales, beers, porters and stouts, and craft ciders. If the atmosphere flags, which it rarely does, Ralph can usually be prevailed upon to bring out his guitar and provide skilful accompaniment to a raucous and out-of-tune drunken lurch through Mustang Sally by the rest of us.

We migrate across the road to L’Oliva, our go-to Beeston restaurant, run almost single-handedly by Marco, a Sicilian who learned to cook at mama’s knee, and through a thousand years of food heritage. Over a few grappa at the end of the evening, pleasantly replete following a fabulous caponata bruschetta, and veal on roasted vegetables, Marco discusses his concerns over Brexit. Marco’s kids were born in the UK. He has invested his own money in a business, and provides the quality of food, drink, and passion that is the antidote to the cheap mediocrity of the local pub-chain corporate machine, which threatens local businesses like the Pottle and L’Oliva, along with their local suppliers. In spite of the benefits Marco delivers to the community, still he is insecure in his permanent residence here. Marco has been advised not to formally apply for permanent residence, in case he is turned down, which may put him at greater risk of potential removal from the UK. Understandably, he dare not invest in his business or the UK economy further. How is this benefiting anyone? Is this what makes Britain ‘great again’? Who are the ‘Neanderthals’ in this scenario?

During the evening, the wife and I mentioned to David, our friend and my PhD colleague, that we were thinking of a visit to one of our favourite locations in all the world, the glorious Isle of Skye. It transpired that Skye was on David’s bucket-list of locations to visit, so we offered to take him with us, in our recently purchased caravan.

Having zero experience of towing a caravan, we were keen to seek the advice of the experts from the outlet from which we bought it.

Take short trips to begin with they suggested, where are you thinking of going first? 650 miles to the Isle of Skye I replied. Hmmmmm… Cue wry glances and barely disguised eye-rolling between members of the sales-team.

Still, part of the purchase package was an expert handover of the van by the crack team of after-sales support professionals…or Dennis as he was called. Dennis was typical of his type. Edging towards the twilight of his career, slightly grumpy, impatient with questions from novices, and exhibiting open contempt for anyone who had the temerity to purchase a caravan without an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things mechanical. The Dennis’s of this world are trained at Cambridge University by the finest psychologists, who erase any lingering desire on the Dennis’s part, to be helpful or demonstrate even the barest trace of customer service. Dennis is trained to inculcate into the novice caravaner, a stark terror of towing said vehicle, and a firm belief that the newbie has not even a moral right to own one.

Suitably chastened, we started north, only to confirm Dennis’s unspoken prediction that a fool and his caravan are soon parted, and that we might as well have simply flushed 10,000 crisp oncers down the caravan’s chemical toilet. Fifteen miles up the M1, one of the caravan’s brand-new tires exploded. Employing the usual inexpert men’s tactics when called upon to demonstrate mechanical aptitude, I walked around the van, looking carefully, nodding knowingly and whistling through my teeth, in the manner I had observed ‘real men’ doing on the those (many) occasions I had needed to employ one. After considering various strategies, I got back in the car and began sobbing uncontrollably. The wife calmly reached for her iPhone and called my father, and on his advice, the RAC.

Two hours later and full of misplaced optimism, I clasped the oil-ingrained hand of the orange jump-suited spanner-wielding hero, promised him the sacrifice of my first-born child in gratitude, and we were back on our way! Fast-forward fifteen weary but uneventful hours, we arrived in Skye and I realised that perhaps the wife was right, and that committing to memory the Space Shuttle-like list of caravan operations to be performed on arrival was less effective than writing them down. Fortunately, the wife had composed a spreadsheet of requirements slightly larger than Brunel might have used to summarise his entire career, and we were soon sipping beer in the pub.

Back to the van for a recuperative sleep, and I was reminded that the laws of physics require that a caravan utilises rear supports to counter-balance the landing-weight of a paunchy middle-aged man on the bed located at the back of the van. One small bang as the back of the van connected with the ground, one squeal of terror as David was launched into a cupboard at the front, and we realised our mistake. Fortunately, no damage was done, and after lowering said supports, our first full caravanning day was complete.

The following day, as David and I discussed the importance of liminal spaces between good and evil in the directorial work of David Lynch, the wife was a blur of activity; erecting, hammering, screwing and unscrewing and generally doing stuff around the van. Can we help? No! Don’t touch a thing! The German gentleman in the adjacent pitch looked across quizzically. Zee voman does da verk? Equality mate! I replied. Aaah, Ja, Sehr Gut! His own wife threw him a glance which said don’t even think about it!

The following days were spent walking and driving around the other-worldly landscape of Skye. The Cuillin mountain ridge contains the famous Inaccessible Pinnacle, which on a previous visit I was fortunate enough to climb with friends; the Old Man of Storr is such a strange environment, the latest Alien movie was partly shot there; the Fairy Pools, with its enchanting meandering walk along a cascade of rock and waterfalls; the spectacular Quiraing, with its hidden hanging valleys, where the Vikings used to hide out with their cattle, and where local shinty players competed on The Table, a perfectly natural and flat playing surface with precipitous drops around the edges.

Visitors say of Skye, it's like the Lord of the Rings, and it is said the Black Cuillins were the inspiration for Mordor. But of course, such alternative fictional universes are like Skye, not the other way around. Skye may look as if the mind of Tolkien fell out of his ear and landed off the coast of Scotland, but those twisted foreboding forms were the inspirations that shaped his mind to turn landscape into narrative in ways which travel-blogs do not do justice to.

Where the narrow roads of Skye used to be largely empty, today they throng with Chinese bus tours, Italian motorhomes, and Dutch and German hikers. Skye is now a global destination and whilst good for the local economy, it is clear that the infrastructure and environment will not cope well with the onrush of modernity. The jury is still out on how to balance competing requirements, but those questions will have to be addressed before long. Of course, we are not tourists, but travellers. Aren’t we all?

Back in the van, and I find that the cooking facilities are sufficient to whip up a 5-course taster menu for ourselves and our good friends and Skye residents, Fiona and David; yes, yet another David, three of us now. From various parts of the island, I procure hand-dived scallops the size of saucers, loch-grown local mussels in heather-beer, Stornaway black pudding, quail, a bottle of Talisker for a whisky sauce, and the best local haggis I’ve ever tasted. We laugh, drink, and eat late into the night, although the light never truly fades on summer Skye, and we never tire of looking north, fancying we glimpse the occasional streak of Aurora Borealis. The third David, a mountaineer, is reluctantly prevailed upon to repeat climbing stories of youth and yore; tales I’ve asked him to tell many times but of which I never tire.

Eventually fading into a warm friendship-and-single-malt-induced slumber in our own ‘cave’, I wonder to what degree such rituals have really changed much from the days of those ice-age Neanderthals. We all gazed in wonder at the same landscapes and looked up at the same moon, and I suspect we all did so with the same awe and reverence, and with gratitude for good food and the company of loved ones.

I’m still not eating anyone’s pre-chewed scallops though.