The Kincaid, Milton of Campsie -- A Pub That Deserved Better

The Kincaid is closed now. That still doesn't sit right with me.

Milton of Campsie is a small village in East Dunbartonshire, about twelve miles north of Glasgow. It sits at the foot of the Campsie Fells, which in winter are exactly as dramatic as they sound. When the temperature drops and the hills go grey and the wind comes in off the fells, you want to be inside somewhere warm with something good in your hand. The Kincaid was that place.

Stewart and Liz lived nearby, and that made it our local whenever Anne and I were visiting from the States. We'd pile in on a Friday or Saturday night, the four of us, and the routine was always the same. Stewart and I would find a table near the fire if we could get one. We'd drink what the bar had, which was always decent enough, and the four of us would settle into the evening. Anne and Liz on the wine, putting the world to rights the way only two Glasgow women can. Loud enough to hear, private enough that you knew not to ask.

The real whisky came later. After the pub, we'd head back to Stewart and Liz's house, and that's when he'd bring out something special. He'd disappear into the back and come out with a bottle he'd been saving. He'd give you the background first. The distillery, the cask type, the age, the year it was laid down. He knows all of it. Then he'd pour, and you'd sit with it for a minute before you said anything, because that's how he taught me to do it. You don't rush a good whisky. You let it open up.

We had some great nights at the Kincaid. Cold nights where the car park was icy and the walk from the door to the table felt like an event, but inside it was warm and loud and full of people who'd been coming there for years. That's what a village pub is supposed to be.

I'm an American. I grew up with bars that are open until two in the morning and serve food until midnight and have televisions on every wall. The Scottish village pub is a completely different thing. It's smaller, older, more personal. The landlord knows your name. The regulars have their spots. There's a rhythm to the evening that you learn over time, and once you're inside it, you don't want to leave.

The Kincaid had all of that. And then it didn't.

When it closed, something went with it. Not just a building or a business, but a specific version of those evenings that can't quite be replicated anywhere else. We've found other places, and we'll keep finding them. But the Kincaid was the Kincaid.

If you're ever in Milton of Campsie, raise a glass to it. It earned one.

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