When I was here a year ago, my phone battery died,  denying me the chance to bring you photos of Chepstow‘s historic Wetherspoons.  This time, I was equipped with an emergency power pack.


I didn’t need it.  Chepstow is a solid enough place, but some way below Monmouth on the list of “essential border towns“. Below Wrexham, in fact.



There seemed to be something happening at the racecourse, possibly a Prosecco festival, but the AC/DC tribute band were parked up, picturesquely, outside the castle.


With race-goers and Hells Bells in town later, I knew I had to get my GBG tick and get back on the train, but of course the inevitable micropub didn’t open ’till 4pm.

With an hour to kill, I got that killer shot of the Spoons I’d missed last time.


Plain interior, unexciting beer range and invisible service. No change, then. In fact the highlight was a conversation about Wetherspoons queues with an American tourist who was queue-jumped twice by locals.  He thought rope barriers seemed a splendid idea.


No queues in the Queen’s Head, of course, though even with only half a dozen folk in the pub the landlord wasn’t sure who to serve next (it was me, but clearly I’m invisible when women come in the pub after me).  One of life’s certainties is that a Welsh micro will be full within 3 minutes of opening.

My main micro moan is that everyone is middle-aged (says he), but this had a good range of punters, one of whom was offering me birthday cake.  It may have been her birthday.

Birthday Girl

An attractive micro, with the emphasis on micro (think Nutshell size), there was quite a bit of fuss about seating and taking drinks outdoor.


But the seating there was would certainly meet Pub Curmudgeon standards.


A hefty beer range for a tiny pub, but they must have sold a dozen pints while I was there, nearly all of the Grey Trees Pale, which was very decent.


Less decent, but more entertaining, was the lengthy banter about Alan’s mum*.  It was too long to relate in detail, and diagrams may be needed, but included the line;

My mum’s shacked up with my sister’s father“.


*I’ve no idea if his name was Alan.  It may have been Alun, of course.


2 thoughts on “A CHEPSTOW ANECDOTE

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