May 31 To travel hopefully The pub with no beer at Inverie
One of the very first guide-books I consulted in planning this trip was the Good Beer Guide. That wasn’t because I intended it to be a 3,000 mile pub crawl, but if there happened to be a pub serving a decent pint of beer in the general vicinity of where one was planning to stay, well, so much the better!
Poring over the maps and the GBG in the long and lonely winter evenings in my stable-conversion alongside the M40, I came across The Old Forge, at Inverie – “the most remote pub in mainland Britain”. Now there’s a challenge, I thought. The only way of reaching it was by passenger ferry from Mallaig, and the best way of reaching Mallaig was by ferry from Skye. Thus was my route determined.
The final leg of my pilgrimage to this outpost of inn-keeping civilisation could not have started more propitiously. It was a simply glorious day, I managed to find a car parking space big enough to accommodate Carmen’s considerable back-end, and Bruce Watt, the skipper of the Western Isles, could not have given a more convincing performance as “jovial Scottish boatman” if he was being paid by the Scottish tourist board.
We crossed Loch Nevis and arrived at Inverie, on the Knoydart peninsula, shortly before 11. It is, for sure, the only way of getting there, other than a demanding hike across 17 miles of some of the roughest country in Scotland, or anywhere else, for that matter. The Old Forge was open. Phew, thank goodness for that. But I decided that a walk along the shores of the loch would make the beer when it came taste all the sweeter.
So it wasn’t until around 12.15 that I finally got to walk through the doors of a pub that I’d been thinking about for months and had travelled – all told – over 1,000 miles to get to. “A pint of your finest Scottish real ale”, I requested of the barmaid, with a note, of not of triumph, then certainly of approaching fulfilment in my voice. “Sorry sir. It’s off”, she replied.
“Off? Off? How can it be off?”, I cried in despair. The senior barman appeared, jaded from a singsong that had gone on until 3 am the night before. “Yes, sorry mate. I tried tapping a new barrel but it almost blew up on me. There’s some more coming over on the afternoon boat, so we’ll have it back on by this evening.”
But that was no good. The boat back left at 3. So I ordered a glass of white wine and a main course portion of local mussels, which are among my most favourite foods, especially on a hot day with a glass or two of sauvignon blanc. Ten minutes later, the cook appeared. “Don’t shoot the messenger”, she said, “but we’re clean out of mussels”. So I had bog standard haddock and chips, washed down with a bog standard South African chenin blanc, just as I could have done in any one of 500 pubs in Scotland. The view across the loch, the blazing sunshine, and the fact that I could at least tick off “the most remote pub in mainland Britain” in my GBG provided some consolation.
The boat trip back involved travelling further up Loch Nevis (“the lake of heaven”), to pick up passengers from Tarbet. A sharply-peaked mountain dominated the sky-line. I enquired of the affable Bruce as to its name. “That’ll be Sgurr Na Ciche”, he replied; adding in a conspiratorial under-tone, “it’s Gallic, y’know, fur nipple.” I looked again at the mountain, and could
immediately see why. It will for ever have a special place in my heart!
One of the very first guide-books I consulted in planning this trip was the Good Beer Guide. That wasn’t because I intended it to be a 3,000 mile pub crawl, but if there happened to be a pub serving a decent pint of beer in the general vicinity of where one was planning to stay, well, so much the better!
Poring over the maps and the GBG in the long and lonely winter evenings in my stable-conversion alongside the M40, I came across The Old Forge, at Inverie – “the most remote pub in mainland Britain”. Now there’s a challenge, I thought. The only way of reaching it was by passenger ferry from Mallaig, and the best way of reaching Mallaig was by ferry from Skye. Thus was my route determined.
The final leg of my pilgrimage to this outpost of inn-keeping civilisation could not have started more propitiously. It was a simply glorious day, I managed to find a car parking space big enough to accommodate Carmen’s considerable back-end, and Bruce Watt, the skipper of the Western Isles, could not have given a more convincing performance as “jovial Scottish boatman” if he was being paid by the Scottish tourist board.
We crossed Loch Nevis and arrived at Inverie, on the Knoydart peninsula, shortly before 11. It is, for sure, the only way of getting there, other than a demanding hike across 17 miles of some of the roughest country in Scotland, or anywhere else, for that matter. The Old Forge was open. Phew, thank goodness for that. But I decided that a walk along the shores of the loch would make the beer when it came taste all the sweeter.
So it wasn’t until around 12.15 that I finally got to walk through the doors of a pub that I’d been thinking about for months and had travelled – all told – over 1,000 miles to get to. “A pint of your finest Scottish real ale”, I requested of the barmaid, with a note, of not of triumph, then certainly of approaching fulfilment in my voice. “Sorry sir. It’s off”, she replied.
“Off? Off? How can it be off?”, I cried in despair. The senior barman appeared, jaded from a singsong that had gone on until 3 am the night before. “Yes, sorry mate. I tried tapping a new barrel but it almost blew up on me. There’s some more coming over on the afternoon boat, so we’ll have it back on by this evening.”
But that was no good. The boat back left at 3. So I ordered a glass of white wine and a main course portion of local mussels, which are among my most favourite foods, especially on a hot day with a glass or two of sauvignon blanc. Ten minutes later, the cook appeared. “Don’t shoot the messenger”, she said, “but we’re clean out of mussels”. So I had bog standard haddock and chips, washed down with a bog standard South African chenin blanc, just as I could have done in any one of 500 pubs in Scotland. The view across the loch, the blazing sunshine, and the fact that I could at least tick off “the most remote pub in mainland Britain” in my GBG provided some consolation.
The boat trip back involved travelling further up Loch Nevis (“the lake of heaven”), to pick up passengers from Tarbet. A sharply-peaked mountain dominated the sky-line. I enquired of the affable Bruce as to its name. “That’ll be Sgurr Na Ciche”, he replied; adding in a conspiratorial under-tone, “it’s Gallic, y’know, fur nipple.” I looked again at the mountain, and could
immediately see why. It will for ever have a special place in my heart! No prizes for guessing the name of this mountain!
Back at Camusdarach, it was such a glorious evening and such a beautiful beach that I decided that an early evening swim was in order. The water was sharply cold, but no more so than it would be at this time of year in the Scillies, and I splashed about happily enough for all of five minutes. When the sea is really cold, it takes your breath away. This wasn’t in that league by any means. Still, swimming in the sea, in Scotland, in May. It’s not a bad claim to fame.
Today, I have driven down to North Ledaig, just north of Oban, stopping at Glencoe en route. The sunshine has been unbroken, and the mountains, glens and lochs through which I have travelled can never have looked more magnificent. I am, if anything, scenery-drunk, as mountain has followed mountain, loch succeeded loch, and vista unfolded upon vista. The road from Mallaig to Fort William follows the line of the West Highland Railway, which is presently featuring a steam locomotive, The Lord of the Isles.
Now that would be travelling in style.
Today, I have driven down to North Ledaig, just north of Oban, stopping at Glencoe en route. The sunshine has been unbroken, and the mountains, glens and lochs through which I have travelled can never have looked more magnificent. I am, if anything, scenery-drunk, as mountain has followed mountain, loch succeeded loch, and vista unfolded upon vista. The road from Mallaig to Fort William follows the line of the West Highland Railway, which is presently featuring a steam locomotive, The Lord of the Isles.
Now that would be travelling in style.
4 comments:
Well Anthony - nipples and beer eh? Sounds like you're having quite a time of it!! (Ken was rather concerned about the comments about Carmen until we explained that that's the name of your 'camper van' (aka, luxury motor home!)... Thank you for entertaining us with your blog - very enlightening! Kate & Jeanette xxx
n&g@hq said...
it all sounds much more exciting than the old day job! You've been in the right part of the country for the weather - hope the sun stays with you. Glad you didn't choose our names to call your camper van - there are enough comments about my considerable back-end!! Look forward to the next installment. Nicky and Gill xx
Anthony,
you are causing meteorological chaos and agricultural desperation. Since travelling to the west coast of scotland renowned for it's rain (Oban annual rainfall 100"+) you have had nothing but sunshine whereas at the same time east Essex, renowned for its dryness has had 6" of rain ( Clacton-on-sea annual rainfall 20"). I think I have worked out why, on retiring from the NFU you have left the self-righteous and joined the righteous - on whom of course the sun always shines. See please divert your celtic odyssey to the Essex coast immediately before the mildew starts to take over. I can assure you north-east Essex has good, but little known, Celtic credentials being the ancient home of the Celtic tribe the Bicaribreezii who gained superhuman strength by drinking a magic potion named after them - thereby being able to resist the infidel wine drinking romans.
Postcard arrived this morning Anthony - many thanks. Just what I needed first week back after half-term! I'll see how much of your blogging I can weave into the curriculum over the next couple of months!
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