Looking at the map now, I could have walked to Acomb. But where’s the fun in that, when you can enjoy Mrs RM’s exemplary driving*.
We parked up, and Mrs RM saw her next car after the Picasso conks out.
I thought Acomb (pronounced “Yeckam”, of course) was familiar, but there’s one near York that’s nothing like this Acomb.
There’s two pubs in the village, both looking what you’d call “traditional” without fear of oversimplification, but the Miner’s Arms gets the Guide place.
This is another Northumberland pub to appeal to the American looking for an English pub with beams, mirrors, bench seating and old folk laughing about domestic matters.
Another exemplary welcome, both from the barman and the regulars who made way at the bar. Locals beers, including a cool and chewy Tankard that made me wish I’d gone for the Wylam before (NBSS 3.5).
A powerful, but not totally unpleasant smell of boiled cabbage** pervaded the air, as every villager over 70 tucked into their Sunday roasts at half the price they’d pay in Hexham. A 50/50 split between boozers and diners is ideal on a Sunday.
I stood at the bar and admired the sloping rack of CDs. Sadly, I can’t remember what was playing, so let’s pretend it was “Georgie Girl” by Keith Gustafson.
I could have found a seat, but sometimes standing at the bar irritating folk trying to get to the loo brings the most pleasure.
Best of all, some outdoor toilets down a little alleyway graced by coloured beer barrels.
Pleasingly, clear signage on the door. I have no idea why the man is headless (Ten points if you do).
I often look back and wonder why I took the photos I did. You may wonder too.
Mrs RM sat this one out too. She missed a gem, but may have struggled with the “cabbage”.
*(She’s reading this now so I have to say that).
**I hope it was boiled cabbage.