“Booking is strongly advised, even if just going for a drink” says What Pub of the Allanton Inn, in the eponymous one street just outside Duns in the vast wilderness of the eastern Scottish Borders.
So I phoned ahead, and asked if they could squeeze me in for a half, preferably next to a plant pot, at 2.30.
Really lovely people, though I expect a request to turn off the Michael Buble would have been met with resistance.
Very Christmassy, and you know how keen I am on Christmas.
Time for our horticultural expert to “name that flower”.
I could have tipped the Born in the Borders Blonde (adequate but uninspiring NBSS 2.5) in the vase, I guess. But I was already getting stares from two primary school children on the table opposite who had never seen a man drinking beer before.
I think that’s called passive drinking and is shortly to be banned in Iceland.
So I left it, pretending to visit the loo I needed anyway.
The highlight is the little homage to Jim Clark, and the mirror that compares your height to celebrities. I’m clearly shrinking in my old age as I’m now shorter than Cameron Diaz. Say nothing, Scott.
I’d happily pay £1.90 to visit pubs with little collections of tat, wash my hands in 20th century wash basins, and be stared at toddlers.
Such a shame I have to drink slow selling homewbrew to get my tick too.