Ready for seven pubs which I genuinely enjoyed despite some Scottish limitations?
(Look, I know you prefer the pish where I suffered cos you're a bunch of sadists, but I've still to tell you about Tranent in the coming weeks so plenty more misery on the horizon don't ye worry).
They really know how to milk the tourist trade in this parts - Highland Games, royal noncery, Traitors, castles, castles, castles, snowy mountain tops. Despite being hit over the head with such Scottishness as an 8.5/10 tartan carpet creeps up the walls (not a bar best enjoyed hungover, I found out), I'm impressed with its clean and cosy, sunny homely ways. A staunch local following creeps up on us too, the pub filling steadily as large lunchtime tummies need their calorific fix (5,500 per day recommended for a Scottish man #BRAPAFact). One bloke gets his piss-took for wearing a hideous shirt that he claims a Thai lady 'forced' him to buy. They love a Thai lady around here due to the lack of local female births. The landlady isn't Thai, but has such a strong Scottish accent she sounds Mexican, Speedy Gonzales to be precise. Ariba Ariba! I brave the local Pale slop from Braemar. It tastes like gin. Oh, and in possibly related news, the WiFi code is something like 'ILuvLager'.
"Absolute scum that place, they owe me loads in unpaid wages from when I worked there .... and speak to ANY small business in Inverness and they'll tell you the same, they owe everyone money and are reviled throughout town!" growled a publican in one of my forthcoming 'Part Fivers'. So what a disappointment to receive a warm, polite welcome and find a 'normal' well appointed house on the outskirts of town. Smart & catering for all. A red-dotter too (GBG regular), backed-up by an excellent pint of Harviestoun Bitter 'n Twisted. In the raised area, I soon get chatting to Ali and Trish. Cracking couple. Candidates for nicest folk of the week. Their dog Hamish is no twog, but so well behaved that he's virtually invisible under the seat. That is until Matthew arrives with his dog Nessie (not saying these were the two most stereotypically Scottish named dogs ever but they were), Matthew admits Nessie is forever horny, Hamish doesn't seem to mind, and that means it is time to pray that the 9:30pm train to Aberdeen is running, or a bus shelter bed it is for me! The train was running, and fortune had favoured the brave. Inverness, pub town of the week.
Highlander Inn, Craigelachie
'Um hello? Where is everyone?' is my first thought stepping inside the Highlander, and then I hear a rumble and clinking of glasses below and realise I need to descend the staircase. Packed full of tourists. You can tell it is Saturday afternoon in a pretty part of Scotland. Stuffy, but a spongy atmospheric homely ancient feeling gaff, one of those that'd benefit from a winter overnighter in a snow blizzard. Main barman Jonjo Shelvey is stressed. His trainee colleague, fake Wu Yize, isn't making the grade. Painful wait at the bar. The ale I want is called 'Here all Year'. "Apt name in t'circs innit?" I chuckle under my breath, turning to fake Michael Stewart, also waiting. He doesn't get the joke. But fake Wu Yize has seen us interacting, assumes we are together, tries to charge us together, and gets another Shelvey bollocking, poor lad. The beer looks like pondwater, but tastes decent until the final couple of inches. I've done well to secrete myself into a snug cubbyhole. The jolly Big Red T old ladies soon leave, immediately replaced by an extended Asian family here for lunch. All good, the snug is large enough for me to have some space. But the elephant in the room is the last day of the Championship season. I'm glad that Hull feels eons away, with us having seemingly f'd up our playoff ambitions at Charlton last week. I'd checked half an hour ago and Derby are in the driving seat for that final spot. I shouldn't care enough to be curious but I do, so I get Shelvey to bark the WiFi code at me from afar, and bugger me, we're only bloody winning! Derby now losing and Wrexham drawing. I feel sick. It is the hope that kills you, not the dodgy Fyne Ale. Eyes glued to my phone from hereon in, and we only bloody do it! Asian lunchers look terrified by my sudden manic smile. No way we'll even get through the playoff semi's versus Meewaw but I'm just happy for the club they've achieved it, having been in top six since November (until last week). I float to the bus stop on a black & amber cloud, though I do think the Spey Inn / Craigellachie Hotel (not in the GBG this year) did the better beer, was friendlier and was less chaotic.
Tayside, and in particular Perthshire struggled more than anywhere else as my holiday grew to a close and skinnier options forced me south. A rare high spot on my birthday was this GBG regular, which evaded me on my Dundee holiday three years previously. Old school. Stinks of ale. An absolute sausage fest, perhaps it has one of those throwback 'no wimmin allowed' policies? Felt like the kinda area. Gah, we used to be a country! A proper jolly boys outing is on, they sit in this distant lowdown part of the pub which makes them look like they're in a giant creche for baldies. They're all a bit weird and insular and keep discussing whether they've got time to stay for another half before the bus, and it looks like a splinter group is determined to stay and miss the bus deliberately, I sense this is causing tensions. The barman is the only cool dude present (apart from me), rocking his je ne sais quoi neckerchief like a boss. My Orkney Man O' Hoy is holiday high point, though when I raise my arm to scratch my neck later on, the barman thinks I'm subtly requesting a second pint and I'm all like "no, no, nooooo, sorry!" At the loos, a bloke randomly shouts "Millwall have scored!" and I shit mi' sen and check FlashScores cos I'm sure the first leg ain't for 48 hours and thankfully I can see no evidence so I stop panicking. And I've worked out Kinross (two ticks) is walkable so happy days .... well until I reach Kinross and see how despicable their pubs are!
Sensational location, and not far from a bus stop with hourly service so don't be put off by the GBG's lack of bus symbol. But what really impresses me is just how this manages to be one of the best unashamed gastro pubs I've ever been in. All about the staff. All young, all female, all brunette, never ombre, all laugh at my various witticisms and smile from the darkness of hidden corridors. The Cairngorm IPA is exceptional quality, no wonder the pub is a 'red-dotter'. A couple demand to know where the salt and pepper pots are, and then roll their eyes when two doggie groups have a doggie love-in. My kinda people!
I was thinking it looked vaguely 'micropub' in the shadow of the local church, but don't fear, I was wrong and you are too. High echoey ceilings with exuberant local noise echoing all around, sturdy 9/10 carpet, and an equally rated barmaid who chirps regarding my 'Raptor' ale selection "Most people are drinking the Happy Chappy, maybe you'd prefer that?" Errrm, oh okay go on then, I'll trust her and hope it ain't an elaborate ploy to hold the secretly amazing Raptor back for the locals. The HC was great in fairness. A deserved 'red-dotter'. A bar bloke adds "Cromarty's a shithole, don't go there!" On the downside, the pub has a vague lingering cheesy sick scent that I just couldn't shake. Or vac. I've sat well out of the way but a funny French duo still insist on sharing my table. And one of them starts sketching his mate, then the pub, but thankfully not me. Shows me his sketchbook. Wow, C'est cool! Lets me have a photo. But because their English and my French ain't all that, especially with bad acoustics, our chat ends quite abruptly.
"Looks exactly the same as it did in my youth" my work colleague Ailsa tells me on viewing the photos I took indoors. The former Ellon dweller must be knocking on 60 now so nice to see a pub this unspoilt (I'm joking, but she is a Sheffield Wednesday fan which must age anyone beyond repair). The blockers are of the hairy 'Real Ale Twats' Viz types, and the barboy is so awkward, it is like he's never spoken to a stranger before in his life. Maybe he hasn't. He has the same accent as Sandy from Shetland after all. I opt for 'Tanfield Export'. Not as County Durham as I thought, but Peterhead. Proper hairs on the chest. Trying to blend in with the blockers, I ask him what percentage this marvellous brew is, he replies "about 5%" Well, he was spot on. Being an outsider, I take a seat in the plush red area, surprise myself that I recognise an Amy MacDonald track which isn't the famous one, and feel pretty content with life. Yup, this was only my third pub but I was liking what I was seeing so far.
One part to go, which I hope to have for you either Saturday or Monday night. Excited, you should be.
Keep keeping it pub, Si
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