“I hope I can make it across the Borders” said Morgan Freeman after becoming a free man in “Shawshank Redemption“, the second best film ever made.
My own quest to make it across the Scottish Borders brought me to West Linton, a posh little village where people can escape the odd smells that necessitate perfumed soaps in Peebles. The Grantchester of the Borders, perhaps.
It’s a bit too quiet for comfort, the only noise coming from Ye Olde Toll tea shop where arguments over splitting the bill have started in earnest.
It takes ten minutes to walk the main street and digest the info boards, before realising the village is all about the Pentland Hills.
A stream of dogwalkers are taking their Fidos up The Loan, the steep hill opposite the Gordon Arms.
Then the rain starts and I head back down the hill for the door below (pay attention now).
I open the door to find myself in a dark restaurant.
“Can I HELP you ?” says a startled lady.
It all looks very closed.
“Er, I was hoping for a beer ?”
“You’ve come in the WRONG DOOR. This is our house !”
I thought that was the idea of a public house.
I was about to make a run for it, but was ushered past the tables into a room with the usual Scottish mix of professional Tennents drinkers at the bar and professional HR managers with a bottle of wine at the table.
“A woman decorator ? Ha Ha Ha”
Now you know who buys all those expensive jumpers.
Actually, some very good beer from Crossborders, so obviously the equation of 4 handpumps for 4 customers must work sometimes.
But never mind the beer, they were playing a PAN PIPE VERSION OF “TONIGHT I CELEBRATE MY LOVE“, which says it all.
And there is NOTHING on that front door to suggest it isn’t THE front door.