Some things I appreciated about Scotland on this trip…
- It’s always sunny
- Complete disinterest in the Rugby World Cup among locals
- Fewer lorries on the dual carriageways
- Train stations mandatory within a mile of any GBG pub
That’s a civilised country, if you ask me.
OK, there aren’t masses of trains, but just enough to make BRAPA (de)basing himself in Perth or Dunkeld in 2030 a viable option.
The Moulin Inn brew pub is 22 minutes walk from Pitlochry Station, or 19 for folk without long hair to weigh them down.
Moulin is gorgeous. Enjoy this video of a babbling brook leading to the hotel entrance.
One clue as to who can afford to stay here, and it ain’t me or Si.
It could be one of those National Trust pubs, the Bretforton or Stourhead of the North, with the homebrew a middle class affectation.
But it had a bit of character, and a near absence of overpowering menus, laminated or paper.
The Moulin pump clips are weird, but I liked the attempt to obscure them with jars of Double Deckers and cookies. There may have been a machine to deep fry them out back.
I think that, as with the Queen’s visit to the Bridge at Topsham, the idea is you buy a pack of ales to take home, rather than actually drinking them there.
I fancied the seat by the fire,
so I let the man go in front of me, where to my horror I realised he’d never been in a pub before and had no idea how to order food and drinks. I never learn.
My own purchase of a half of Light (it was a long day) was barely simpler, as a complete lack of coinage meant a barman having to drive to Perth to get my 20p change.
The ale was lightweight and watery (NBSS 2), but let’s not be churlish, it was worth £1.80 to sit in front of the fire and listen to gentlefolk ask what was in the neeps and tatties.
The piped music was playing at such a low volume that it defeated my “Name That Tune” app.
And in the Gents I found a challenger to the Evelyn and Crabtree dominance of posho pubs.