The yellow and slightly tattered and faded saltire flag hung limply from a flagpole in the front garden. A sign hung against the tartan patterned stained glass of the inner front door said ‘Ceud mile failte’, a hundred thousand welcomes. It was signed ‘Doogie and Morag’.
I rang the bell and waited. The bell chimes played ‘Scotland the brave’ before the door was opened and I was greeted by a man wearing a kilt. It was the proprietor himself, Doogie. Just for a brief moment it felt as if I would be crushed within an all embracing hug. He smiled, more of a huge grin opening from a bearded face, and shook my hand vigorously. It was a warm welcome.
“Aye you’ll be the guest. Come awa’ in, I’ll show yers to yer room.”
I had travelled north and was spending a few days in Scotland near Inverness, having first booked a small hotel over the internet. I am one of those people who like to know where they are staying before I actually arrive.
With a bag in one hand and laptop in the other I followed Doogie across the tartan carpet, up the stairs with the stag’s head on the wall and along a corridor decorated with tartan wallpaper. It was November and we exchanged pleasantries on the wretched state of the weather. Each room we passed carried a tartan plaque bearing the name of a different clan. Chandeliers of mock cut glass, well actually plastic, festooned the corridor every few feet and hung down to within 6 feet of the floor. Now I am over 6 feet tall and it was a narrow corridor and I had a bag in each hand and Doogie set a brisk pace. Several chandeliers swayed from side to side behind me.
We reached my room, the Macduff suite. It was nice. Large with a modern four poster bed and a good view to the hills, plain walls and carpet. No tartan, just pictures of the nearby Great Glen and Loch Ness. It would do just fine.
“Aye, you’ll take yer breakfast from seven thirty. Morag ‘ll see to yer.”
The next morning she did too. Breakfast was in the dining room and the ‘full Scottish’, but it has to be said, without the clootie dumplings. Big and bounteous, prepared and cooked by the fair hand of Morag herself, who was also big and bounteous. Now the dinning room and the decor was something else. Did I mention they liked tartan and the odd Scottish adornment? A blueish green tartan carpet this time, more subdued, different to the brighter reds and blues in the hall and on the stairs. Near matching tartan wallpaper ran a third of the way up the walls, and not quite identical to the upstairs corridor. The chair seat covers were also tartan, but reds and oranges. Pictures of those Victorian idyllic Scottish landscapes; lochs, mountains and glens covered the walls and looked down upon you. Rabbie Burns surveyed the scene from a sturdy towering dresser. The far wall was hung with those painted ceramic plates of dogs, all West Highland terriers. Did I mention Morag liked dogs? There was a West Highland terrier called Mac who barked whenever the front door chimes played. The upper glass in the windows boasted more Scottish symbolism in the form of ‘stained glass’ highland ‘characters. The table cloths were all plain and starched white, but overlaid with a cloth of purple thistles. Ornaments, ceramics, brasses, curiosities and other things Scottish proudly stood on plate rails, window sills, radiator shelves and sideboards. The room definitely made a statement, it shouted out to you, screamed at you with a loud highland cry. Never mind the breakfast, Morag’s room was certainly the ‘full Scottish’. The venison sausages were nice and the Dundee marmalade too.
Anyone like the address, or are you not too keen on tartan? HKE538VSNSTJ
