Ecclefechan hotel

Tall orders at the Ecclefechan Hotel

One winters day back in the final weeks at the end of the last century, me, my dearest wife and her sweet sister Rosie were heading up to Glasgow. I had a business meeting and Rosie, my wife's younger sister, was visiting us on holiday from her home in Muscat Oman. She was curious to see Scotland. Approaching Ecclefechan on the A74 we were caught in a blizzard. A total white out. Although driving a 4 X 4 SUV I decided it wasn't safe to continue so turned off towards Ecclefechan town. We arrived in the centre and entered the Ecclefechan Hotel.

The landlord bid us a warm welcome and seeing as we were 'foreigners' politely asked where we were heading and then where we hailed from. I replied that we were from King's Lynn 350 miles down south and heading for Glasgow. I asked if he had rooms available. He replied there was only one room available, a double but we were welcome to stay. We accepted and returned to our car to retrieve our bags.

The Landlord handed us an old Florin, a two shilling coin. "For the meter." He said. "You'll be warm enough with the heater for the night." We thanked him and found our room. Simply furnished but largish and spotlessly clean with a large double bed. We then returned to the lobby and asked if there was any chance of a meal at this now late hour.

"Sorry, but no. The Chef leaves at nine." It was now 10:00pm.

"No problem." I said. "We'll make do with some crisps and nuts in your bar."

We entered the bar and it was heaving. A large group of happy, noisy revellers. Every one of whom instantly fell silent as we entered.

After a few seconds a chap said "Where are you from?" At the same time urging his companions to slide along the leather bench seats to find space for us to sit down. An encouraging start. The nice man introduced himself. "I'm Jamie MacDonald." He said, followed by "This my wife Joan, and our two sons Douglas and David." We returned the courtesy and introduced ourselves.

A moment later the door opened and in came the Landlord. "Would Haggis, tatties and neeps do you." He asked. "The Chef said he'd come back to cook if you care for Haggis, tatties and neeps."

That would be just great." I replied. Without giving either my wife or her dear sister the opportunity of asking what were Haggis, tatties and neeps. My sister-in-law is Singaporean and unlikely to have known.

Pubs of the age, particularly in Scotland and before the Nanny state raised its devisive head, would fill with tobacco smoke. So much so a blue mist would often hang in the air about a metre above the floor and around a metre thick. You would be lucky to make out much the other side of it. Despite that our new found friends Jamie and Joan insisted upon introducing us to everyone else in the bar. He would call out each by their name, which inevitably ended in the surname MacDonald, along with their job or profession. Bill MacDonald the builder, and his brother Tom the plumber. Robert MacDonlad Greengrocer. Finlay MacDonald our Postman. And so on and so on. Each hanging onto their pint glass of 'Forty Shilling Ale' for all they were worth.

Haggis, tatties and neeps arrived and was delicious. None of us left a trace behind on our plates. It would not have been polite.

Inevitably nature took its course and I enquired as to where the Gents was. Not expecting this to generate the chuckles and pained smiles on the faces of half in the room.

"Down the corridor and second on the left." Came the reply. Followed by another chuckle.

I found the 'Little Boy's room' easily enough. Opened the door stepped in and straight onto an upturned wooden beer crate. The floor was earth and a full thirty centimetres below the height of the floor outside. The urinals were of the modern 'Bottle' type, screwed to the wall. I'm six foot four tall so standing on tip toes I just managed to relieve myself, without too many tears.

I returned to the bar and entered a room full of forty or fifty MacDonalds all practically wetting themselves with laughter. Apparently Bill the Builder was in process of excavating and laying a new floor, to cure an historical rising damp problem.

Bill's brother Tom then stands up and says. "Not true. We took the floor out so as to frighten the tourists." At which point he stands upon tip toe, grabs an imaginary rim of a Bottle urinal, glances theatrically to left and right and says "Japanese tourist!".

More convulsive laughter.

My tale doesn't end here. The girls decide to retire for the night. I decide to retire instead to the 'Snug bar', for residents.

The Snug bar doubles as the Reception of sorts and is manned by the Landlord himself. I enter. At far left hand end of the bar is an elderly gentleman, in archetypal Kilt, complete with berry and a Shepherd's crook leaning against the wall beside him. You could not make it up. I didn't!

The old chap cheerfully introduces himself. Yes, you guessed it. Another MacDonald. I sit down and spot the shelf above the Landlord's head sports a row of Single Malt whisky bottles from one end to the other. I ask the landlord for a glass of the first one at far left and he obliges. It was good. Ten minutes or so later I order one from the next bottle. Our Shepherd friend says "Aye, so you like the Malts then do ye?" I reply that I do and he then says do you like peaty or no? I tell him I am less partial to peaty than more easterly distilleries' offerings and so he recommends another. I say "Will you join me in one?"

The old man says "Thank you but noo. I'll stick with ma beer this evening. Thanks again."

The night wears on. I resign myself to the probability I won't be driving anywhere next day so order another. This time Shepherd MacDonald accepts my offer to buy him one. This is repeated a couple more times and eventually I bid both him and the convivial Landlord good-night and make my way to my room. The girls had done as bid and split the mattress. My place thus on the floor. Not a problem and I'm comfortable enough.

Morning arrives and we pack and tumble down the stairs to Reception. Miraculously much of the snow had melted and also Council snow ploughs appear to have worked through the night to open the roads. The Landlord confirms the A74 is fully open again, so I ask for the bill. The room was a humble thirty Pounds or so. There was a charge for the Haggis meal for three and a couple of beers. However nowhere on the bill was any whisky shown. I pointed out to the Landlord that he must have forgotten the whisky and that between me and Shepherd MacDonald we must have consumed at least a dozen measures.

"Oh noo Mr Englishman. Mr MacDonald settled that for thee."

I protested, but he was having none of it. So I paid my bill with Amex and pulled out a couple of fivers from my wallet and said "Put these in your till and buy Mr MacDonald a few when next he's thirsty." Then gave another Fiver and said this is for you and your kind Chef. "Have one on me."

Not the first time and wasn't the last that I experienced this kind of Scottish hospitality and generosity. Throughout my longish, eventful life I have learned that most stereotyped assignations of character or national traits are generally the total opposite of the truth. I have been fortunate enough to visit Scotland, all of it, at one time or another and gained lots of friends. Some of whom I am stil in contact today. Scottish hospitality and generosity is legendary in my experience. I will not hear of any claim to the contrary.

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