Dateline: Portpatrick, Scotland; September

Can you imagine what it’s like to live in country in which there is such a large choice of where to spend the weekend that no matter how many places you’ve already visited, there seem to be just as many more beckoning? That’s why I love the British Isles.

It is about the size of New York State with similar variations in topography, but with twice as many cities with over 1 million in population than in the entire United States, and, at the same time, vast tracts of wilderness with less people per square mile than anywhere in Europe…such emptiness as to make the Adirondacks seem crowded! And throughout it all, more attractive country house hotels than the States has well-mannered restaurants. What a choice! Great fun for me to discover somewhere really good that few know about, and share it with you...who wants to travel 3000 miles to take a chance on an old favorite that may have “gone off,” or risk a new place that no one you know has yet tried.

Last weekend was great in all respects. I found a spot that, in its own way, is the most comfortable retreat in these isles; is in a beautiful and rarely-visited part of the world, and has yet to be discovered by the magazines...making you the first to read about it.

I flew to Glasgow from London. Scotland may have its own parliament but there is neither Customs nor Immigration; I just picked up my bags, the keys to the Hertz, and headed south on the A77. At Ayr, I picked up the A719, taking the coast road. The islands of Arran, Bute, and Argyll can be seen west across the Firth of Clyde; this is Robbie Burns country. Burns lived most of his short life in Ayrshire, Dumfries, and Galloway, and his work was inspired by the land he loved and the women he wooed.

Shortly, I came to the gate of Culzean Castle (pronounced kuh-lane); the gardens were open but the house, used by General Eisenhower during the war, happened to be closed. Culzean overlooks the Firth of Clyde, is one of the most spectacular and finest Adam houses in Scotland, and is normally open to the public from March to October.

I continued down past the famous championship golf course at Turnberry, and through Ballantrae. This is the land of thickly-matted, black and hornless Galloway cattle; of the red deer and golden eagle; and of long-curly-horned goats. Passing through Stranraer from which the ferries ply to Larne in Northern Ireland across the Irish Sea, I struck out cross country on narrow lanes punctuated by mustard-colored gorse toward Portpatrick. Here the Gulf Stream, washing the land with warmth, encourages startling, sub-tropical gardens…and on the globe it’s about as far north as Juneau, Alaska!

Just before Portpatrick, a weathered signpost pointed the way down a single-track road. Each turning brought the banks closer and closer until the path tipped over toward the sea and, below me, resting on a clear patch of lawn, sedately gazing out over the sea, was my objective—Knockinaam Lodge—a secret awaiting discovery.

Two hours from the jetport at Glasgow, only four from London, and I was a hundred years from tomorrow standing on a deserted gray-blue beach watching the seventh waves roll in from Ireland across the sea. Seventh heaven and cloud nine, and for that moment, all of it mine.

Knockinaam Lodge was filled with tweedy ladies and gents, mixed with stunning gals and guys, who brought as much warmth and joy to the house as the log fires, central heating, and sunshine smiles of the kilted lassies who fussed over carrying my bags.

I was shown up to Glen, a sweet room with a genuine king-size bed, generations-softened chintz curtains framing a view of the rim of the glen, a lovely antique chest of drawers and similar bedside tables, and in the bathroom, a gi-normous tub, period washbasin, a sun-dappled, potpourri-accented dressing table, and acres of fluffy, white towels. Nothing was there because it matched...nothing did; and, of course, it worked. The simple, almost unobtainable attractiveness of unpretentious comfort, expressed in a shy manner so as not to be so rude as to try to impress, was very impressive indeed!

The whole house is like this...remembering it now is almost intoxicatingly self-indulgent. A room used as a bar has oak paneling hung with deer trophies, tartan pull-up chairs, and wonderful antique porcelains.

The west-facing drawing room enwraps one with Scottish oils, glowing logs, and an elaborate cornice highlighted by an amazing sunset.

The second drawing room is full of floppy, slip-covered, loafer-welcoming sofas and chairs and books and games and magazines and delightful watercolors on eighteenth-century-looking paneling and, beyond the rippled windows, bright flower gardens that bound away through the apple trees toward the sheltering sides of the glen.

Upstairs, nine bedrooms range around the sides of the house, each with wonderful views of the sea, the gardens, or the forested cliffs that protect the lodge from all save the glorious sea. Each room is more attractive than the last, and each has a tale to tell…the four-poster that was locked in litigation, the gable-framed suite at the top of the stairs, and, of course, the Churchill room with its Delft-tiled fireplace and diving board-equipped tub. (Sir Winston used the lodge for a secret meeting during the Second World War with Ike who was headquartered at Culzean nearby.)

As the sunset faded, I swam a few laps in my tub, selected a gray-flannel suit (jackets and ties are appropriate for dinner), went downstairs, chose a single malt from the choice of 120, and scanned the no-choice menu. It’s always more fun to let someone else decide and, besides, one would never feel one was in an hotel here anyway. Marcel and I decided on the wine, and soon I was escorted into the salmon-pink dining room overlooking the indigo sea.

I started with a bottle of Chanson 1985 Chablis and a panache de poisson au vinaigre de X’eres et sa julienne de legumes. Slices of gently-cooked lotte and turbot were served on a shallow pool of slightly acidic beurre blanc; a pinch of paprika adding an unexpected sparkle to the lovely morsels. Finished with batonettes of truffles and a tender julienne of vegetables, this starter was truly memorable.

The next course was a warm salad of tender langoustine and sweetbreads served with a tart confit of cherries. The langoustine and sautéed slices of sweetbreads were layered atop salad greens slightly wilted by warm vinaigrette. Topped off with fresh sage and rosemary, the dish is one of interesting contrasts—warm and cool; crisp and tender...delicious.

Marcel next brought me a Chateau d’Angludet 1979 Margaux, and a perfectly roasted filet of lamb with a quickly-reduced sauce of Port demi-glace and truffles. Slightly sweet, slightly nutty, the sauce married well with the pink slices of lamb. A bouquetiere of vegetables complete with stuffed courgette, mange touts, turned carrots, and parsnips accompanied the dish.

Finally, I was brought an ambrosial feuilleté of white and dark chocolate served with a slightly sweet, pistachio sauce. I’ll do your salivary glands a favor and not expound any further than to say it was as heavenly as it sounds.

An Armagnac in front of the fire in the west drawing room brought this fascinating day to a close, and I nodded with smiling appreciation upon sliding between the cold, linen sheets to discover that some magical wee one had turned on the warming, electric mattress pad.

Breakfast next morning was as unfamiliarly familiar as everything else in this delightful place. Delicious porridge, scrambled eggs and sausage, homemade marmalade, even oat cakes. I hated to leave but the road beckoned.

Before leaving, I had the chance to meet young Chef Daniel Galmiche and thank him for a surprisingly superb dinner the night before. Daniel had come to Knockinaam from the Auberge de I’Ill, the three-star restaurant at Illhaeusern in Alsace, by way of La Gavroche, also three-starred, in London. The Dumfries and Galloway district in the lowlands of Scotland is about as far removed from the glamours of haute society dining as is possible, but his point is already becoming apparent...Knockinaam is the only establishment in Scotland to have been awarded two rosettes from the Automobile Club, distinguishing its extraordinary cuisine. In my opinion, the first of what will be a growing number of Michelin stars cannot be far behind.

I drove up out of the glen and for the next five hours, wound through Annie Laurie country to Drumlandrig Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Buccleuch (Mollie, the Duchess, was a great friend and I have spend many a memorable weekend here), meandered along lochs, through forests, and over passes. An instant blizzard reminded me that even in the lowlands, the peaks reach nearly 3000 feet and brief snows are common nearly all year round. This drive was one of the most beautiful and extraordinary I have ever experienced and the countryside just cannot be compared with anything anywhere else. Turning in the car back at the Glasgow airport, I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t actually been to Brigadoon.

As I said...remembering it now is almost intoxicatingly self-indulgent...because I wrote this twenty years ago to the week!

Yes, there have been changes…it is now owned by Sian and David Ibbotson who have refurbished the bedrooms, added a vast wine cellar, and hired Tony Piece who was recently awarded Scottish Chef of the Year, and Knockinaam is still extraordinary.

I may have been the first to write about Knockinaam but it has since been spotlighted by many magazines and last year was awarded the Scottish Hotels of the Year Award. It has also earned it’s first Michelin star! (Hehe, it’s fun being a point man.)

Knockinaam Lodge
Portpatrick
Dumfries and Galloway
Scotland
DG9 9AD

Tel: 01776 810471
Fax: 01776 810435
Email: reservations@knockinaamlodge.com

http://www.knockinaamlodge.com/index.htm

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