As soon as I saw the name "Port Mahon", I knew I wanted to go in this pub. A split second later I saw "open log fire" and made plans. We chained up our bikes around the side and walked through newly falling snow clumps to the teal door. Once it shut us in, the warmth began to seep into our cheeks and clothes along with the atmosphere. Worn wooden floors have been polished down with shoes. The bar shows off its scars in the yellow light of bulbs shining through whisky bottles. Above our heads, nautical lanterns swung in their red and green correctness. Red right returning? Check. It made the whole place feel like a safeharbor.
Tucking ourselves between a wall and a happily murmuring group of five, we rejoiced in the candle flicker and queried about what to split. It was Robert Burns night, as it so happened. Feeling brave, I tiptoed to the bar and asked for the haggis and a tap water. I am getting used to chuckles over getting tap water, but the gentleman didn't have to guffaw quite so loudly. His laughter didn't matter a mite as soon as our food arrived on a massive, serving-sized dish. We looked at one another, took a breath, and then took a bite.
It was heavenly.
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