Rocco’s wheel lurched leftward, his indicator dipped and I just had to pull in to the Wild Hare café, which is conveniently located on the A7 to Gala. A man, especially a Picky Man avec sa camionnette, must sometimes stop and live a bit. Even on a tight delivery schedule. Live to drink coffee, don’t drink coffee to live. Oh, I’ve now got a PMiaV Mission Statement and one of those mottoes. I’ll get that painted on a distressed piece of fake driftwood right away and put it in the kitchen with all the other mottoes about wine, dancing and drinking gin in the rain like no-one’s watching. I digress.
Stow is an odd little spot, a place artistically, architecturally and historically punching into the next weight class with its own ruined Auld Kirk, faux-turreted town hall and a three-arch stone bridge. Parking is free and I ambled along Townhead, which also has a handy Post Office & shop, bookshop and a café with potential, just like many places used to have before we swopped everything for phones.
A sense of caramel-ly calm prevails in the Wild Hare café, which was previously an art gallery and still has the open, light feel. There is a rather snazzy mezzanine level with an old winch (or possibly a heretic-questioning device). Downstairs there is a classy loo. Really nice wallpaper. The café interior is moderately panelled, has tastefully-exposed stone, is decorated in a well-chosen palette of warming brown colours and has interesting seating. Art is hung hither and thither, but not too much art, which I find can be a bad thing and confusing for one’s noggin. The whole café is pleasing: relaxed and airy with nice tables. Someone has put a great deal of thought into making the space charming without seeming to be trying too hard. I particularly liked the outward facing window sofa with blanket. I would have had a nap on it but at my age and outwards appearance, this could risk mental health professionals being called to sanction me. Or distressing passing children. Or being mistaken for a poorly-executed window display as bonfire night approaches.
The staff in the Wild Hare are friendly and when I enquired about the ancestry of an odd-looking flan on the counter they informed your ignorant correspondent that it was a ‘Basque Cheesecake’. I don’t know why I have placed that comment in speech marks as it was indeed, a Basque Cheesecake. This prime pud has a deliberately over-browned exterior, like certain Glaswegians about to board a Jet2 flight to Magaluf. No you can’t take extra breakfast pints onboard.
‘Sold”, I said, in speech marks, vis-à-vis the Basque Cheesecake. £8.20 for coffee and what turned out to be a light, not over-sweetened and excellent baked cheesecake was a fine deal. To nit-pick, the coffee was only acceptable: not distinctive but not bad. Not enough to give me a Bad Hare café day, but I did wish for a more engaging blend.
Is it any wonder I was repeatedly punched at school with this sort of attitude and pun?
I could not find anything else to dislike about the Wild Hare. It just seemed to be a charming place to pass the time, even without being able to get under that blanket.
The Wild Hare is a sophisticated halt for ladies and gentlemen of the byeways. A swift visit can be combined with a shufti around the ruined Auld Kirk and a quick sticky-thumbed rifle through the bookshop. You’ll be back on the Edinburgh bypass soon enough. Take some time and make it a Good Hare day.
Live to drink coffee etc etc. I’ll try to get patent pending on that.
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