The Ninety-Day Grain

The bar in Kirkwall had five tables and a fire, and the door opened straight onto a street of grey stone with the cathedral at the top of it. Polly took the table nearest the heat, because after a day on the water there is no other table. "Can I see the menu?" she asked, and got a card with fewer things on it than she expected and more of them local.

"Could you recommend a good dish?" The owner was a heron, which is a bird built for standing behind a counter, and she recommended the bannock without hesitation. Bere is a barley they have grown here for centuries, a six-row grain sometimes called the ninety-day barley because it ripens fast enough to finish inside a northern summer. Milled into beremeal it makes a flat, dark bannock that tastes of the field it came out of.

"Do you have vegetarian options?" Polly asked, and the heron pointed back at the same line on the card. Bannock, butter, and crowdie, the soft fresh cheese the farms have always made. The same grain has a second life across town at the distillery under the tower, working since seventeen ninety-eight, where the whole street smells of warm malt on the right morning.

"Can we get the bill, please?" Polly said when the plate was empty, and the heron took her time bringing it, which is a compliment. Outside, the wind had dropped to the level the islands consider still. Polly walked up the grey street past the red sandstone of the cathedral with the taste of a hard climate on the roof of her mouth.