The Scottish Tearoom Experience
By Derek Bateman
You’ve been there yourself. Often. A long drive north, miles spent behind a caravan, with patience fraying and the sudden need for coffee tugging at the wheel with every passing tearoom sign. You pull in at the next roadside stop and park outside a kit-made log cabin with a neon light flashing Open.
Inside there are crude landscape drawings done by the owner and a couple of Jack Vettriano prints. An array of hairy gonks sits on the counter beside uncovered scones. Tea is served in screaming hot metal pots that spill automatically as you pour. No salad is ever dressed. Your white bread sandwich contains yellow emulsion paint, or is it margarine?