The best and most innovative Scottish books

As a kid, I was hooked on the vast wide-open freedom of this story. The notions of hidden treasure maps, buried fortunes, stealthy smugglers and dangerous pirates affected me in profoundly positive ways, stimulating a wanderlust and a love of adventure.

Although Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson set this swashbuckling tale on the south coast of England and on the elusive “Treasure Island” in the Caribbean, it was inspired by his childhood experiences in Scotland, most notably trips with his dad to rocky islands and promontories (RLS’s father was a lighthouse engineer who designed and built many iconic lighthouses).

When my father took the five-year-old me to The Admiral Benbow en route to a family holiday in Cornwall, I was amazed to find that the inn was a real place. It felt bristlingly alive to me, for this was the same inn where Billy Bones had lodged with the treasure map while hiding from pirates. I wondered, ‘If this pub is real, what else in Treasure Island was real?’ 

This led me to the logical conclusion that it might all be real, which in turn led to me spending that entire holiday exploring caves and digging massive holes, certain that I was going to find a chest full of gold and jewels. This worked out well for my mum and dad, as they never had to keep me entertained – I did that all by myself. My grandfather didn’t fare so well, though; one evening he fell into an enormous hole I had dug (he managed to claw his way out eventually – he’s not still in there!).

One of my favourite songs – Tomahawk Kid by The Sensational Alex Harvey Band (best Scottish band ever, I reckon) – came about because Alex, too, was fascinated by Treasure Island. As the saying goes, if you know... you know.

Whilst I’ve enjoyed most of Irvine Welsh’s books, The Acid House (a collection of short stories) is my favourite because it so accurately crystallises a particular culture, place and time.

The stories are set in Edinburgh and its environs during a period when I was living in a village nearby. My familiarity with the settings made The Acid House feel intimate, sometimes unsettlingly so. I love the way each story blends the real and the surreal. There are drugs and booze galore, of course, as well as brutality and revenge, but the author’s savvy wit and incisive dialogue give these tales gravitas, authenticity and philosophical depth.

I laughed when a couple of years ago I witnessed “Scotland’s top cop” (in the spoof police documentary Scot Squad) sum up Irvine Welsh’s written output as “monkey gibberish” – the barely concealed glee with which that phrase was delivered by comedian Jack Docherty (in deadpan style as the character Cameron Meikelson) tickled me, but it also made an important point: he was echoing a view that many clueless self-professed literati have expressed about Welsh’s books (even though most of said folk have never read one). It’s a groundless accusation.

Irvine Welsh is a master storyteller. He chooses not to write in pretentious style, opting instead for the vernacular of his birthplace, but that doesn’t make his writing less culturally relevant. Just the opposite.

As an 11-year-old I read Wee Macgreegor for the first time and thought it was the funniest book ever written.

I cried laughing at several parts. The dialogue sparkles with old-Glasgow wit and wisdom. John Joy Bell’s love of the Scots dialect is evident throughout.

The book is a collection of tales featuring the titular character, a wonder-filled wee boy growing up in Glasgow during the 1930s. There’s an endearing innocence in the writing. Playfulness too. It’s a glorious snapshot of Scottish life a century ago.

This book is, to me, the most quintessentially Hebridean novel in existence.

My paternal grandmother hailed from the Isle of Lewis (or Eilean Leòdhais, to give the island its proper Gaelic name), as did her parents and their parents, and so on back ad infinitum. I’ve always loved the wild beauty of the place. Lewis feels like Home with a capital H. It has a long history of poetry and song, but until fairly recently not many novels had emerged from those shores.

The Stornoway Way impressed me on several levels. Kevin MacNeil eloquently articulates the difficult duality experienced by many Lewis folk: on the isle they feel isolated and often daydream of being elsewhere, but upon leaving the island they feel uprooted, untethered and lost. And how do the islanders deal with this existential paradox? They drink. As in, really drink.

In the Hebrides, alcohol is both a curse and a saviour. That is something the main character in this novel – the colourfully named Roman Stornoway – understands well. He knows it, lives it, inhabits it, under no illusion that he could escape its clutches. 

Even his name (which on the surface seems like a simple homage to Lewis’s capital town) hides multiple meanings which reveal themselves when sounded out phonetically.

That sort of clever wordplay and layered profundity can be found throughout the book, elevating it into the realm of extreme readability... and rereadability. The author’s love of language – English and Gaelic, as well as occasional slabs of Scots – is evident in prose and dialogue alike: the legacy of a poetic upbringing and a philosophically alert mind.

I love the book’s settings, believable characters (archetypes rather than stereotypes) and original plot. It’s an authentic lens through which to view Hebridean culture. There’s heartbreak, but it’s poignantly counterbalanced by hope and humour.

I love this – Tom’s only published novel – not just because of the author’s impressive command of brevity (a prolific poet and short-story writer, he is a master of saying more with less) but also because his poet’s love of language shines through in the dialogue: each character has unique verbal habits and idiosyncrasies, just as people in real life have.

Tom’s characters are the sort of folk I want to hang out with: philosophers, all; originals; one-offs; salt of the Earth. There’s also a wolf angle. Wolves have always resonated with me. As a child, I photographed them wherever I could (mainly wildlife parks). In Nahatlatch Valley, British Columbia, where I holidayed with my family when I was seven, I lay in bed in the log cabin each night, howling along with the wolves whose song filled the forest outside.

As a nineteen-year-old on holiday in Spain, I was so drunk one night that instead of staggering the couple of miles back to my tent, I decided to sleep on a mountain that was closer. I clambered halfway up the slope, found a flattish clearing that had some tree cover, lay down there and fell into a restful slumber. In the middle of the night I woke with a start, feeling the unmistakable sense of being watched. Sure enough, a wolf was in the clearing with me. Not growling. Not showing any aggression. Just standing at my feet, watching me. Words bubbled out of me – “Hey, wolf. You’re beautiful.” – whispered so as not to spook him. After that we shared a long comfortable silence, observing each other intently.

In the present day my best friend, sidekick and training partner is a wolfdog. They have always been in my life, the wolves, so the presence of one in Tom’s novel – albeit a hinted-at presence that tantalised me throughout the book – stimulated a feeling that “this writer is speaking to my soul”. There’s magic in that.