The scene could not have been more Scottish: the icy blue stillness of Loch Lomond hugged by rolling, heather-covered hills; the old pub standing sentinel on its shores, its warm interior wrapped in tartan wallpaper studded with faded photos; the wooden bar with its hand-pulled beer taps.
My mate and I sidled up to that bar, all ready to order something appropriately Scottish, hoping the bartender would understand our accents, hoping we could make sense of his rough brogue, when he turned and flashed us a wide smile.
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