Fred Smythe, the world’s worst tourist, totally believed everything he read on the internet.

So, when he saw a “Haggis Awareness” post from Visit Scotland — featuring a photoshopped, potato-shaped furball with legs of unequal length — Fred booked a flight. Rachel, his wife, refused to accompany him.

“They’re joking,” she said. “There’s no animal called haggis.”

 “Yeah, right,” Fred scoffed. “Next, you’ll be saying the Loch Ness Monster isn’t real.”             

Fred arrived in Inverness wearing a full ghillie camouflage suit and a pith helmet. He looked like a confused groundhog.

“I’m here for the Great Highland Haggis Migration,” he informed the car rental agent. “I want to see hugs of haggis. You call groups of them ‘hugs,’ right?”

The agent stared at Fred’s camouflage face paint.

“Sir, that’s a joke. A ‘haggis’ is a savoury Scottish pudding made of sheep’s pluck.”

Fred winked conspiratorially.

“I get it. Protect the ecosystem. Don’t worry, I just want to take photos.”

“Erm, the driving here is not like in Canada. We drive on the left.”

“I can drive anywhere.”

The agent forced Fred to buy the enhanced insurance package.

Armed with his big, heavy DSLR camera and huge 500-millimetre telephoto lens, Fred spent the next three days stomping through the Cairngorm Mountains.

He set traps of Tupperware containers propped up by sticks, baited with artisanal crackers and single-malt scotch. He drank most of the scotch.

By day four, Fred was damp, smelling of peat bog, covered in thistles and increasingly irate. He cornered a weary shepherd.

“They’re avoiding me,” Fred hissed, pith helmet askew. “I’ve been tracking their circular footprints for miles. Do I need more musk?”

The shepherd sighed, leaning on his crook.

“Laddie, you’ve been tracking sheep. And that musk you’re wearing is attracting nothing but midges and the occasional confused cow.”

“The Haggis Wildlife Foundation website said they live on the steep slopes!” Fred shouted. “That’s why their left legs are shorter! Why are you all hiding the magnificent Highland Hamster from me? I’m a tourist! I deserve special treatment!”

“It’s a pudding, laddie, ye ken?” the shepherd said slowly. “It’s boiled in a bag.”

Fred’s face turned a shade of purple that rivalled the heather.

“A bag? I’ve seen the photos! Scotland’s National Museum of Haggis in Edinburgh has stuffed haggis animals, but I want to photograph them in the wild!”

Driven by an unholy cocktail of stubbornness and scotch, Fred infiltrated a local pub in Aviemore “to find the black market.” He marched to the bar, dripping bog water onto the floorboards.

“Give it to me straight,” Fred whispered to the bartender. “I want the haggis. The wild stuff. No farm-raised junk.”

The bartender nodded solemnly. “Och, aye. One ‘Wild Highland Chieftain’ coming up.”

Ten minutes later, he set a steaming plate of haggis, neeps and tatties in front of Fred. Fred stared at the crumbly, grey-brown mound.

“This thing is cooked!” Fred bellowed, voice resonating with the fury of a man who had spent $2,000 on a safari that didn’t exist. “I wanted a live one! And where is the fur?”

“Shaved for the summer,” the bartender replied without blinking. “Aerodynamics.”

“You Scots have eaten them into extinction and replaced them with … with … spicy oatmeal! I’m writing a scathing review on Tripadvisor!”

He stormed out, his ghillie suit rustling indignantly, leaving a trail of mud and guffaws behind him.

Back home, Fred told everyone he’d seen a wild haggis, but it was too fast for his camera.

“At least you didn’t try for a photo of Nessie,” said Rachel.

“That’s next year,” vowed Fred.

© Peterborough Examiner