The crawl round the Argyll peninsulas (thanks Mrs RM) takes in half a dozen seemingly identical hotels varying only in vintage, brand of hand wash and the age of the Jarl being served.
20 minutes after Cairnbaan we pulled up in the worrying sounding Kilmartin.
That’s not our new campervan there, by the church.
Kilmartin has, for obvious reasons, long seemed an essential visit. I was excited by the chance to examine of the UK’s best collection of Neolithic remains, but
luckily unfortunately Mrs RM felt a drop of rain and we had to head straight for the pub. Mrs RM has since said “she’s fed up of pubs” but I wonder what else there is to do in Argyll bar eating langoustines and lounging about around stones.
I did get a shot of the ancient football pitch for Duncan though.
Let’s face it, it’s worth travelling 352 miles just for that font on the hotel.
One thing in Scotland’s favour; the pubs are generally open.
The locals, all programmed to Kill-Martin, gave me a stare. Or perhaps, like me, they were trying to identify the early-90s soundtrack. Shania Twain or the Corrs ?
Luckily for Mrs RM this turned out to be one of the friendliest pubs on the epic trip, full of cheery locals and standing stones students (?).
I succumbed to a cool pint of Jarl here (NBSS 3). Sadly the Belhaven glass is no Doom Bar, but I think you’ll agree the lacings are retiredmartin-worthy.
A tiny place, really, with a few ladies-who-lunch having that argument that us pub tickers most love;
“NO CAROL, you’re NOT paying for it !”
I am also now an expert on the arrangements for Paula’s birthday party, a joint affair in Ealing, and may gate-crash it if I can find a suitable pub to visit in West London.
Outside in the graveyard I searched for evidence of a multitude of murdered Martins.
But it was all Scotts and Duncans and Kirstys.