It’s been a bad day for Mrs RM judging by the F and C words* flying about since 4am this morning. Some folk have been noticeably happier today, but that could equally be the birthday cake.
To cheer her up we walked a mile in the rain to the Vaults in Newark, a Beer Guide place we’ve taken to now our campervan gets to regularly stay there overnight. I wanted to revisit the Blue Monkey pub with it’s polite piano on Friday nights, but then I’d have missed the sort of happenings that make pubs such a joy.
It was all looking quite civilised when we turned up at 8, with just a few locals having a decent home made dinner in an atmospheric cellar bar. The Pheasantry Bitter (NBSS 3.5)and local ciders were just what Mrs RM needed, accompanied by decent pasta and proper steak pie.
Half-way through her second scrumpy she started tapping me furiously and shouting “Look at the Reaper, look at the Reaper”. Sure enough, a group of black-clad folk were being blindfolded right next to that pouffe above by a silent hooded fiend dressed in blue and led away.
Mrs RM went for a look behind the net curtain near the fireplace, and came back with tales of swords and Shiraz (thankfully no Prosecco).
The Reapers assistant, red rose on her behind, came out at intervals to direct newcomers into the coven (?). None of them were drinking real ale so we feared for their souls.
This might be normal Friday night behaviour in Penzance or Bethnal Green, but I’ve never before seen the like. The wonderful bar ladies shared our bemusement. Spookily, my best photo seems to have been corrupted:-
Newark is a wonderful place now that the ’80s popsters have left.
*Festival and Coldplay