DUNKELD
by Chris Hammond
Whilst the weekend appeal of Dunkeld is awesomely obvious, watching the regulars recall decade old stories of small time banality loses its charm fairly swiftly.
When describing a rural bar so steeped in local tradition, it would be truculent to suggest its inhabitants resembled real life copies of Wicker Man extras. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t. From the gibbering tweed bonneted geriatrics to the hundred yard stares of the vacant youths, the Perth Arms clientele were hardly high class.
Slap bang in the middle of Dunkeld’s fine old centre, The Perth Arms is a basic bar for basic people. Outdated jukebox and pool table aside, the only other entertainment came in the form of a big screen. And yet despite the dull permanent Sunday night atmosphere, gleefully stereotypical tartan curtains and seemingly deliberately uninspiring drinks choice – this place does have some sort of bizarre backwards charm.
Whether this comes from the roaming leash free dogs, or a live feed of a wild osprey nest beaming across from the TV I couldn’t say, but the flawed quaintness of this dour drinking den makes it more than acceptable for a pint, albeit a very quick one.
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