On to the Marlbank in Welland in the foothills of the Malvern Hills, though without much sense of being in them.
Pub sign experts can confirm if this is an old Banks’s house.
An average dining pub that I’d have left unmentioned for all time*, but for some of the highest quality banter of the year so far, and a top quality outdoor smoking den.
Smokers get better seating than us healthy drinkers here.
In the pub, the barmaid was eating her sausages, seated at the bar (this was 1pm). I quite like that, it’s not something you get in places where they call you “Sir“.
This was a good all-rounder of a place. Dining room to the left, public to the right, baby changing area to the rear, shower room at the back, Jeff Buckley on the CD.
Not much cask being pulled, and that “2 clips on 1 pump” trick makes it hard guessing the busiest beer. So I went for the dullest option.
And the HPA was a bit dull (NBSS 2.5), despite being perfectly cool and clear.
But the price of admission, about £1.70, brings me into a magical sophisticated world where adults discuss their posh meals at places called “Didactum” in odd accents. Note their drinks stretch to a J20 and 2 glasses of water. What a world we live in.
This is the land of Worcester Woman; a land where the “amuse bouche” is in vogue. I had no idea what an “amuse bouche” was, and I’d always thought Anti Pasti was an ’80s punk band.
Colin was in raptures about his meal, urging his phone to load the requisite photos he’d taken of his meal. “Oh my gosh !” said Mary. Several times.
I hardly need tell you that Colin admitted to rarely travelling as far as Worcester. Or Malvern. I wonder what he’d make of Duncan’s travels.
Truly a pub where the peasant (like me) can be educated for pennies.
*If I ever run out of posts I’ll knock up one called “Pubs so boring I couldn’t be bothered to tell you about them“.