We haven’t taken the campervan on any wild camping expeditions yet, but aim to makeit to Cleethorpes soon. The surface car park at Bury St Edmunds is free on Sunday night though, and there’s nothing like a Sunday night pubbing when you don’t have to work on Monday.
Bury isn’t heaving at 8pm, but it’s a lot busier than, say, Newbury or Chichester would be. The Wetherspoons, in particular, is doing good business even without much food trade.
The Corn Exchange is yet to grace the Beer Guide, and to be honest probably won’t with the rather dull beer quality I’ve had to date. Mrs RM rejected the Caledonian Edinburgh Castle (NBSS 2.5) and clung grimly to a can of Fourpure IPA I’d hoped to share. She’s definitely gone over to the dark side now, and who can blame her.
I needed a proper pub, and there is little more pubby than the Rose & Crown, for many years Greene King’s unofficial tap. In the years when such things were legal (c.300 years ago), I often popped in here with colleagues for a pint of IPA while auditing the National Supplies Service down the road. It was busier then that it was Sunday night.
I doubt it’s the Spoons that has done for the Sunday trade here, more a combination of social factors that Pub Curmudgeon can explain better than I can.
Despite the quiet, we loved it. The IPA and Abbot were spot on, the décor (including porcelain pigs) is unchanged in 40 years, and the soundtrack was similarly stuck in 1978;
- Chas’n’Dave (Gertcha)
- Bay City Rollers
- Boney M
- The Cars (Best Friends Girl)
You get the idea. Ten points if you can guess what came next.
That should have been time, but we ran to the Dove to sneak one in. I’ve wrote about this before, and now I’m sure it’s in my Top 10.
Packed at 10 on Sunday night, and as Mrs RM noted, all human life was there. Ten blokes sat round a table talking rubbish state monopolies in Carlisle, and day trips to Scunthorpe.
Younger folk talked University, Janette Coleman and “put you to sleep” beers. Mrs RM tucked into the half-pint of scratchings and eulogised a Green Jack Mahseer from the jug.
To the outsider, this might all look very ordinary, but the overall effect is extraordinary. One of the owners strolled round, letting people know they’d be calling time soon, in the way your best friend would tell you it was time to leave a party.
The Dove may just be the ultimate public house.