As you’ll know by now, my final twenty-two GBG ticks are in northern Scotland, a country I didn’t actually believe existed a year ago, but have spent more nights in than Sheffield this summer.
My late June trip to Perth, Tayside and the Grampians was a triumph, though I must have sat on my phone passing Arbroath as the notes went a bit wobbly;
Does “Knk9mmkloip is the 6” mean anything to you ? Is (s)/he Nottingham Forest’s latest signing ?
The slog up to the north of Scotland (M1/A1/A66/M6/M74 etc etc etc) is now as familiar as the Sheffield-Waterbeach slog, only with better hills and haggis.
Much better roads in Perthshire than Cambridge too, and plenty of places to park a campervan.
But were the pubs worth it ? Frankly, the ticking is often secondary to the joy of exploring places like Dunning on the edge of Perth.
Wiki says “Dunning is the process of methodically communicating with customers to ensure the collection of accounts receivable.“, which is more exciting than its info on a village apparently renowned for the Dupplin Cross.
Meanwhile, across from the cross, “Inn with Rooms” screams (quietly) the Kirkstyle Inn.
Everyone was in the garden, so at least I was able to reach the bar. Or would, if I’d been able to see it in the dark.
Honestly, folks, everything is so dark when you hit 40.
Luckily, their website has brighter photos;
I think Mudgie will love this, don’t you ?
Wait, is that a baby lamb in the bar tripping me up ? I think I can see its umbilical cord.
I couldn’t see my change, so dark was it as I counted at my £2.20. The lovely barstaff didn’t check my coinage either, so it’s possible I offloaded my Manx money and was 1% short.
If Duncan had been there, he’d have found something nice to say about the undrinkable house beer. I shall merely tell you it sank into that sand rather nicely;