The front door squeaks.
Every time.
Loudly.
I suspect there is a reason, as in it will let the bar staff know someone is coming in.
But then again, the men’s room door squeaks and nobody cares who’s going in or out or even wants to know.
There is a well-loved dive bar in Austin, Texas called LaLa’s Little Nugget, which is overtly Christmas themed, and there are elves hanging from the ceiling all over the bar that jump up and down in what appears to be a random order. But if you’re at the bar long enough, you realize they’re all hung by fishing line to the men’s room door, so every time someone comes in or out, they dance.
The Black Bull Pub in Duns doesn’t have dancing elves, but it does have squeaky doors.
So you know when someone comes in or takes a leak.
Everywhere I go, the ad guy part of my brain kicks in and I think about ideas to make the business better or more successful and I’d probably fix those squeaky doors but maybe I’d mess with the good juju of the place.
I’ve spent almost four weeks coming in and out of The Black Bull. I’ve been here in Duns writing about the resident whisky makers. Peter and Matt Bowyer are the father and son duo that run Fort Glen Whisky, just out the outer edge of this overtly cute little town-slash-village.
I’m sure someone will tell me when a village tips the scale to town, so I’ll leave it open, waiting for some smartass to correct me.
I feel like I’ll carry a little piece of Duns with me for a while. In the nearly four weeks I’ve spent here, I’ve begun to feel like a local. Maybe a local anomaly weirdo wearing a cowboy hat and sprouting a strange accent, but it’s gotten to the point where people stop me to chat when we see each other. Being the Resident Texas Guy has its benefits.
Everyone has been kind and polite and wonderful and welcoming. They don’t all start that way. It’s pretty easy to spot an American here and all over Europe. I can spot them. I’m not even sure how I can spot them, what that flashing neon sign over their head is, but it’s there. Kind of like that logo over the sailboats during The America’s Cup they put on TV coverage so you can tell the boats apart.
It’s there. Those little floating neon logos whenever you see an American. Or a Canadian. Sorry Canadians, I mistake you for Americans on foreign lands until I hear you speak, but all y’all look like us.
But back to The Black Bull.
It’s my favorite place, even with the squeaky doors.
It’s an old pub with a hotel upstairs and I learned that it was closed for a couple years for a total refurbishment and it shows. It’s all very pubby inside but fresh paint and floors and fabrics on the seats.
It’s warm and dark red and brass and wood and cozy and comfortable. It’s a bit of home. It’s my office. I come in here often and sit at a tiny two-top across from the bar, by a picture box window that just happens to have an electrical plug to give life to my long-suffering laptop and extra-long-suffering battery.
I come in when they open, around ten and there is often some old Scot at the bar nursing a pint.
The Scots like to drink. And stopping by the pub for a pint seems to be part of a normal routine for the people I see at the bar. I’ve had conversations with many of them and what I can make out, they’re happy, kind people who all know each other.
Me being The Anomaly, stand out like one of those neon sign thingies over a sailboat so I’m something new to meet and they often do. It’s entertaining for them and quite fulfilling to me.
It’s slow in the mornings. The regulars come through the squeaky door and chat to whoever is behind the bar, get their pint and quietly sip away.
This morning there was a robust woman with a robust black Lab sprawled out on the floor, exuding love for all things. He was quiet, gentle and looked up at you saying that if you want to pet him, it would do us both good. I did. It did.
She was doing crossword puzzles.
Another older gentlewoman came in to sit at the bar, drink a Coke and read the paper. She knew everyone in the place except me.
This is probably her daily routine and I was in her chili by being in her bar but she gave it no mind.
Noah and I came in, on a Sunday, for Sunday Roast.
It’s a thing in Scottish pubs. Sunday Roast.
Big cuts of roast beef, cooked perfectly, and how do they do that all day, fresh steamed veggies, mashed potatoes, a baked then fried half potato which was soft inside and crispy outside, amazing gravy, and Yorkshire Pudding which was, holy hell, delightful.
Noah and I split an order, and it was more than enough for us both.
It was beautiful. I was a total wanker tourist and took a photo, which you’ve already seen.
A pub in the UK, and I’ll generalize even though there are some differences in England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland, but I’m a dumb gringo from Texas, and I can’t explain it well enough, so I won’t try, is a welcoming place.
Nobody expects much from you when you enter. Your presence adds to the place so you’re welcome, unless you’re a real shit-show. Then I’m not sure what will happen because I’ve not seen that in my time here, but I’ve spent a lot of time in Scottish pubs and there is a warmth here that you don’t find in American bars.
Even if they’re dressed up in their best pub clothing.
If you have enough money, a company will build you a real Irish pub in any strip mall you choose, and it’ll look like a real Irish pub, but it’s fake. It’s Aspartame.
A real pub in the UK is just something different.
The Black Bull has a trivia night, like many pubs here, and it’s serious business. I jumped into a team a few weeks ago, and I know stupid things nobody else at the table knew, but there were plenty of questions I had no idea about.
“Which team was the runner-up in the 1967 Cup?”
“Um… The Dodgers?”
There is a social contract here in Scotland that I don’t see back home. I get the feeling The Scots don’t hate The Scots in the way that everyone in America looks suspiciously at everyone else in America. We Americans buy a lot of guns to defend ourselves from ourselves, who bought a lot of guns to defend themselves from us.
Think on it and it’ll make sense in an utterly nonsensical way.
The Black Bull has great food, cold beer on tap in big actual pints, not those squirmy American pints, and cool jazz playing quietly in the background so you can have a real conversation without screaming.
God, how I hate loud, lousy music in bars and pubs. If I want loud music, I’ll go home and put on a record and turn it up to 11.
I was in here the other morning with my Viking War Mug writing and drinking coffee when the chef poured a big beaker of Ice Breaker Pale Ale. I mentioned how it’ll be an interesting morning and she told me it’s for the beer batter for the Fish and Chips
I’d thought the beer in beer batter was mythical marketing baloney.
But it’s real. She had a big container of club soda and another of Ice Breaker Pale Ale.
“I’ve tried all our other beers and the Ice Breaker is the best.”
I feel like I’m better prepared to deal with life now.
I’ll miss this place when I go home.
These places don’t exist in Texas. There, its turn the table, eat your fried animal, and get the hell out and tip zacko percent because screw you.
That social contract of not hating each other give The Black Bull, and all the other pubs in the UK a feeling of home that the locals depend on.
Back home, that house was built in 1845, and the windows are small, the rooms are small, and the walls are two foot of stone, but it’s warm in the cold, and it’s nice to get out to someplace public where there are neighbors.
Another morning at The Black Bull.
“Thank you, Sir, may I have another?”
