Hurl your wee haggis

The hurling ground in front of the hotel lay shimmering and verdant in the lung-startling clarity of the Highland morning air. To the south lay ancient Abernethy Forest and chocolate-coloured Cairngorm Mountains topped with dollops of snow. To the west the River Spey popped with salmon and trout.

Standing in front of the austere Victorian facade of the Nethybridge Hotel, I was about to take part in one of the more obscure and demanding of the Scottish Highland Games: haggis hurling. According to legend - or rather, the hotel leaflet which had been my bedtime reading the night before - haggis hurling started centuries ago.

Highland housewives developed the time-saving habit of hurling lunches over the river to their husbands working on the other side. This became a sport which fell into decline and was revived 10 years ago in the tiny village of Nethy Bridge by Robert, manager of its eponymous hotel.

There are plenty of activities here - cycling, golf, walking and fishing. But I wanted the hard stuff - some haggis action - and so, apparently, did the crowd of hotel guests and locals around me in the hurling ground. Robert is master of ceremonies and he darted around in a Basil Fawlty-meets-Michael Barrymore kind of way. He adjusted the heather taped to his hard hat and twirled his tartan, occasionally yelling instructions through his loud hailer.

Peter the Piper let rip with his bagpipes. Surprise guest Richard, of the Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Team, arrived to open the event, parking his ambulance discreetly. Apparently a dog had once been badly stunned.

Richard, lean and tanned from mountainous adventures, stepped into the hurling barrel - one of the more obscure rules of the game - and donned the compulsory hurling kilt. A tattered but flashy number, it had Velcro fastenings to accommodate even the most generous waist. Leaning down he chose his one-and-a-half pounder, carefully assessing its aerodynamic qualities, straightened up - and hurled. The contest had begun.

I was intrigued by the nature of this Scottish icon hurtling through the ether. Mel Gibson, aka "Braveheart", appearing on the Big Breakfast show, had once said it was his favourite snack. Earlier that day, I'd become Faintheart as Mr Mustard, the local butcher, explained just what the ingredients of a haggis were. Minced lung, liver and heart are combined with barley, onions and spices and wrapped up in a neat parcel of stretchy intestine.

The next hurler, buxom Marie, from Fife, had no qualms about handling a haggis as she stepped forward and paid her 50p hurling fee - all proceeds go to the Mountain Rescue Team. Using the favoured underarm method, she heaved. A gasp went up from the crowd. An excellent hurl - but unfortunately backwards. Was this a ploy to lull competitors into a false sense of security?

A knot of men with dram-flushed faces murmured together as they waited in the queue ahead of me. They screwed up their eyes in a knowing way towards the end of the rectangular pitch. In the distance silver pennanted markers indicated previous records. I scanned the faces of the hurling queue - was Pc Billy Muir, Champion Hurler, among the crowd, ready to improve on his record of 52 yards? But no one quite fitted his description (six feet square).

Fired with enthusiasm, 40 of us, aged between seven and 70, waited to step into the hurling barrel. Haggises were whirled, tossed, chucked, skimmed and lobbed. "It's surprising what you can get people to do," said the master of ceremonies with satisfaction. I could only agree when I took my turn, trying not to feel too self-conscious standing in a barrel wearing a gigantic kilt. I seized my haggis, a slippery mini-haggis with a neatly tied belly-button of ox-stomach. Weighing it in my hand I realised its deadly potential - it was deep-frozen and hard as a cannonball.

Using an underarm toss, I tried to launch it into space. As it slithered from my hand I swear it took on a mischievous life of its own, skimming sideways. I tried again, this time whirling my haggis by its little stringy tail. It went briefly into orbit - not quite in the style of Big Billy Muir - but I felt I'd done my bit for the clan McKindberg.

Then three burly strangers stepped into the fray - the Alexanders of Paisley, grandfather, uncle and young James, on a visit from Australia. They'd been passing in their car and stopped to see what the fuss was about. Urged on by Robert with his megaphone, young James popped into the barrel, Velcroed up and squared his shoulders. His haggis zoomed down the hurling green to wild cheering: 33 yards and he was the winner. A little bemused by the whole thing - but clutching his prize bottle of whisky proudly - he beamed. "Wait till my mates in Perth hear about this!"

Way to go
Sally Kindberg flew to Inverness with British Airways (0345 222111), three departures daily from Gatwick, returns £112.60. She stayed at the Nethybridge Hotel (01479 821203), special weekend rate throughout July of £69 per person for two nights with dinner and breakfast. Haggis hurling takes place 12 times a year at the hotel. The next events are on Saturday 15 July and 5 August. For further information call Highlands of Scotland (HOST) on 08705 143070.