Mrs RM finishes her Scottish IT assignment this week. I’ll be pleased to have her home.
It does mean the end of six months spent in country house hotels like the Buccleuch (“book-loo“) and views like this on St Cuthberts Way.
We don’t have views like that in Waterbeach. It’s very flat.
I made Mrs RM do a circuit of St Boswells when I popped up to
tick pubs meet her last Wednesday, when the hotel was full of hikers and the afore-mentioned descendants of Robert the Bruce.
As you’ll see, it’s all happening here.
It’s a one pub town, and you’d struggle to call it a pub given opening hours at the Buccleuch seem tied to gastro dining, and the best banter comes from drunken conversation with suits of armour.
You know what sort of place you’re staying in when the tables in the “bar” are filled with gun cartridges.
But let’s not be unkind. The Buccleuch Burger is magnificent.
And they serve real ale as well. It says so on the door.
You do have to ask, as the ales are carefully hidden behind the straw box of Pipers, another hotel affectation.
On the first night, the Foxy Blonde (I’m using my Mrs RM indulgence, remember) was superb, an example of how good local (and ubiquitous) Born in the Borders can be. I started to wonder if the Buccleuch might get its Beer Guide place back.
But on my last night, the Hobson’s choice was Greene King IPA was practically undrinkable, without actually being off. A couple of businessmen were drinking it though. Business people drink anything.