As wrong as it felt, we used our new time wisely by heading to the nearest distillery, Glenfiddich (pronounced Glen-fiddick, with a throat-clearing sound at the end), which was only a half a mile from our B&B. The initial "brew" of water, barley and yeast smelled like a hog farm rolled around in mud in which the hogs died. It nearly put me off drinking scotch permanently. (Not really.) The second stirring smelled much, much better. By the third stage, the stuff smelled guuud.
The best part, of course, and one that rates its own paragraph, was the nosing and tasting. I have never officially nosed scotch. The tour guide poured three different versions of Glenfiddich and told us to smell and taste the difference. Excuse me, ma'am, but I couldn't decide what the difference was. Could I have more, please? (Ans: No!!!)
We walked from there to the center of town for an early dinner. The French restaurant we had chosen from online information was closed on Wednesday. What restaurant closes on Wednesday! Rats!
As it turned out, the best thing that could have happened was that the French restaurant was closed on a Wednesday.
We next stopped at a pub and no, they didn't serve food. Try the one up the street. It looked inauspicious when we opened the door. It was a small room with biggish, serious men who stared uninterestedly at us. The biggish, serious bartender got someone to guide us to the way-back room, that is, the room under the sign that said "Toilets." Oh, oh, this must be where they hide the tourists. In fact, it was the place that had a table that could accommodate six loud people.
Our first dish was a main course that the cook served as an appetizer ... just because we asked. Sure, sure, she said, no problem. That earned the first wow! reaction. ("Erynn, haddock cakes for two," she yelled down the hall.) We all dug into the dish when it got there. That got the second wow! reaction. I got fish and chips with haddock ("Erynn, fried haddock," she hollered down the hall), a great, tasty fish native to Scotland's waters (and also the Northeastern part of the U.S.). Wow, wow, wow! We started talking to Edna, the cook and chief organizer, and she turned out to be charming, sweet and a great cook. She volunteered her daughter to drive us back to our B&B (about a mile away) after dinner. Four wows! Sweet women, mother and daughter. Great dinner. Rocking scotch. Fun times and great hilarity. It's the best.
Dinner last night at Craigellichi in the hotel's restaurant that had rows and cases of whisky.
Two unusual dishes at dinner: The first is samphire (apparently called "pickleweed" back home), a salty, delicious vegetable(?). The second picture is of Matt's chicken stuffed with haggis.
Our sweet waitstaff. (I think their combined age is 35.)
The path was graveled dirt and was very well maintained. At several points the trail looked like this but with severe drops on either side of the trail. You shouldn't wander down this path checking out your iPhone, for instance.
Here are two pictures that I just liked.
Here is our lunch: candy, candy, more candy, other candy, and ... blueberries.
About 3/4 mile from our B&B on the edge of Dufftown. Giant warehouses full of scotch! And, no, painting your behemoth warehouses green does not make them blend into the scenery.
The native cows are shaggy like buffalos.
Yay, our B&B, and we're only FIVE hours early!
At Glenfiddich, waiting for our tour.
Who's the happiest of them all. Me, me, me. I'm the three-fisted drinker.
Tom choosing dinner off the hand-written menu at dinner.
Can't say enough good things about Edna.
Or Erynn.
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