We were in transit from train to ferry, from Scotland to Northern Ireland, on a one-night stay in the harbor town of Stranraer. It wasn't a pretty town, it was a utility town, all about the huge ferry terminal and the sleek trimaran that would take us to Belfast in the morning. We bumped our roller-bags through town looking for a place to stay. An old woman we met on the street with a walker and a wonderful lilt in her voice pointed us to "her favorite" hotel up the hill. We went there, but it had apparently been closed for decades. Down the street we found a lovely home with a room available and stowed the luggage. It was time for refreshment.
We peeked in doors of bars and cafes. None beckoned. Finally we found The Grape, down a few steps from the street and through an ancient door. It was warm inside, a dark heavily-carved wood bar and tables filled with people, a cheerful fire in the grate. There were women here, something noticably missing from the other places we had peered into. Two stools were open at the bar; we took them and ordered drinks.
Our end of the bar was anchored by a group of the usual Irish/Scottish bar lads with their ales - ruddy-faced, a little boisterous, what you’d call experienced drinkers. They wanted to know where we were from and conversation erupted. One of our new friends was the owner of The Grape, a 400-year-old public house. Before we knew it, single malt scotches were lined up in front of us, each smoother and better than the last...try this, try this. Amazing hospitality and a memorable evening....
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