Having just seen an affectionate BBC programme on Ordnance Survey (theme – only weird men buy OS Maps), I was tempted to give you an extract from Explorer 260. But all that would show you is how built up east Nottingham is, with points of interest having to be hunted down on foot.
The faithful navigator (note arty shadow) gives you a better perspective;
From memory there’s a windmill, and a modest hill up to Mapperley and the Bread & Bitter; all the Notts suburb action is to the west.
I did offer Mrs RM an invigorating 3 mile stroll up Carlton Hill, an offer politely declined. You can’t drink those cans of Bud Light while you’re walking, and our return tickets to Newark allowed us to “break our journey”, an odd term I always feel.
A six minute journey to Carlton from Nottingham station. It isn’t rough, but I bet we were their first tourists. I didn’t even see the obligatory information board.
Fans of trees growing out of business will find their nirvana here though.
The Fox & Hounds just outside the station looked in rude health, till we realised the custom was all teenagers attending the boxing school.
Mrs RM needed a comfort break, but resisted my urging to pop in here and ask for “a pint of cask conditioned real ale“, instead gamely pressing on the new GBG tick.
I told her the Old Volunteer would take ten minutes; it took twenty. Don’t blame me. Across the road from a modern shopping arcade, it’s a pleasant looking local that I expected to be pleasantly quiet at 5pm.
It was absolutely heaving, seemingly with folk of all ages. It took us a while to realise the youngsters queuing for coke were taking part in a charity pub quiz to which all the answers came from “Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are dead“. Students these days.
Clearly Flipside beers for £3 are a big draw round here, though obviously Mrs RM plumped for their dearer 7.5% Porter (NBSS 3), noting with glee that they were happy to serve her a pint.
All the tables inside were taken, but the outside tables gave unparalleled views of the B686 and this bit of history;
I sensed the ACV was coming to late to save the heritage cycle shop.
It was all very pleasant, and we followed the Porter with the craft keg on the left below (the balloon one), which I only now see was a mere 3%.
Back on the East Mids trundler, an enthusiastic guard “Next stop Bleasby ! Bleasby is our next stop !” sounded like a man who had never got off at Carlton.