Apparently there are no words that rhyme with “Ibiza“, so I can’t use the Life on Mars line in this post, which is a shame. If I’m wrong on that I can expect Tom to correct me by tea-time.
Tom may also leap to the defence of the Broads, though I doubt it. Along with Stonehenge and Cambridge’s independent coffee shops, they are England’s greatest disappointment.
Seemingly invented for the enjoyment of folk who enjoy staring straight ahead and waving, even my Dad could only say yesterday that they were “peaceful“. I’ll concede the appeal of the dunes around Sea Palling and Horsey, though that’s as much about the thrill of impending destruction.
I had a similar sense of impending destruction as I began an interesting looking walk at Coltishall yesterday.
The walk ended at that precise point. If there’s one thing Mrs RM knows it’s when to run, having been chased for several yards by one of those horned things in Leintwardine once.
I ran as quickly out of the Recruiting Sergeant, a new GBG entry with a gun on the wall that may be only used to scare off drinkers looking to sit at tables set for dining. It hardly seems relevant to mention the Woodfordes Tundra was tasteless (NBSS 2). No “Hello” or “Goodbye” either; compare that with Milton yesterday.
Obviously the Broads are quiet out of season, scarily so, which did at least bring a sense of tranquility to the Bure at Horning.
There haven’t been many Beer Guide entries round here over the years, and with competition for places so fierce in the Fine City that’s understandable. I just checked the first GBG, when the Broads were pretty much a beer desert, but then Norwich itself just had the one entry in Watney days.
GBG 17 has given us the deep joy of five newbies, so we’ll be getting out the campervan and filling up with supplies from Roys of Wroxham soon. Deep joy.
With it being January, our lunch target yesterday was closed without warning, so I was hoping the kindly folk at the Ship in South Walsham hadn’t packed up early and gone to watch the ducks or whatever folk here do in winter.
They were happy to feed me in something resembling a pub.
Despite the empty seats, I chose this over to the pleasant restaurant area, a mistake Simon Everitt would never make. I can’t, therefore, report on the ailments and holiday plans of the Acle Strait‘s lunching ladies.
I can report an eclectic music selection stretching from the Stones to Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, the latter’s first LP having no doubt just been released in Norfolk.
I’ve posted a picture of my ploughman’s lunch at the top and will leave you to assess it’s merits. The mustard came in an espresso cup, if that’s significant.
Presentation aside, it was very filling, and seemed to raise the level of the Green Jack from NBSS 3 to 3.5, so that by the end of half hour I’d warmed to it. Finding a pub with only two beers on to maintain quality fills my heart with joy.