Thursday 17 October 2024--We leave Craigellachie this morning, driving southwest through Aberlour, then northwest on the familiar back roads through Carron and Dallas, to pick up the A96 in Forres. We thought for a bit about somewhere to take a break on our way to Plockton. Inverness is halfway, but does not appeal. I suggested Beauly, which I visited with Scott and Win in 2010, but which Ron has not seen. I decide to travel west on Clachnaharry Road on the south side of the Beauly Firth, rather than crossing the Kessock Bridge on the A9; this means cutting through Inverness, which I'm doing by the seat of my pants. A wrong turn or two is inevitable, but not disastrous.

Beauly (pronounced like "beauty", except with an l instead of a t) is a pleasant village of 1400 or so which grew up around the 13th-century priory. I'd think it a suitable spot to spend a night on the way from here to there, except that, according to CAMRA, neither of the pubs serves real ale. Scandalous. Legend has it that the name of the place comes from Mary Queen of Scots, who reportedly declared "Ç'est un beau lieu" on a visit in 1564; but it's well documented that the name was in use long before. The ruined priory church visitors see today dates from the 1530s. As it happens, we can see very little of it, as it is entirely clad in scaffolding, work being done to assure that future visitors will be able to see it. Perhaps we will be among them...the light lunch we have at Cafe Biagiotti is itself enticement enough to return.

On we go, over and down into Strath Carron, along the south shore of Loch Carron to Plockton. We're staying in a new guesthouse for us, right on Harbour Street. Our hosts are apparently off on holiday somewhere; the fellow they've entrusted to check us in takes our payment, hands us a set of keys, and disappears. The keys are superfluous--the front door isn't locked, and the only reason I'd bother locking our room door would be to guard against accidental entry by other guests, of which there are none.

We stroll up to the Plockton Inn to see about dinner. They're booked up, so we dine at the Plockton Hotel instead. At the bar, I recognize three members of the Plockton Parliament (an informal designation used in the UK for any group of older gents who gather regularly for a blether). Their presence in the Hotel is surprising, as I've only ever seen them at the Inn. But the Inn was sold to a small hotel chain a couple years ago. I say hello--not sure they recognize me--and ask if they find the renovated pub less welcoming. They shrug, and one tells me that sometimes they meet there, and sometimes here.

We've arrived on a Thursday expressly to attend the session at the Inn, but I'm not going to make it--I'm off to bed early again. Ron heads up on his own.