“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans“, as Yoko Ono once said.
So I spend my time planning trips to the Isle of Wight, wherever that is, and dreaming of making inroads into East Devon, but end up driving up and down the A68 past the mining towns of Durham.
Monday night in rural Durham isn’t fertile ground for feeding a hungry Mrs RM, particularly if you choose to steer clear of Bishop Auckland (always wise)..
Only two cars parked up, one of them ruining my photo.
A fairly typical thin village all-rounder, dimly lit but with tasteful touches. The sort of place that would have had condiment drama on Easter Sunday, I suspect.
Three customers, four beers. Not the ratio you want, but as so often happens the beer was cooler and tastier than you might have feared, so Darlington CAMRA know what they’re doing.
No-one can say the Black Horse isn’t doing its bit for the microbreweries either. One of those rare occasions when jam jars would be useful, as clearly “Stout” gives no clue as to the colour of the beer.
Of course, a quick look at What Pub would have told me there’s no food, and the pub clearly relies on dining trade, but I rarely trust What Pub these days.
And anyway, they had crisps, served with aplomb. Seabrooks may not be Pipers, but goodness me they were cheap.
And I had the pleasure of Mrs RM’s company, discussing Noam Chomsky’s book while I tried to listen to Sade’s Diamond Life.
I remembered one Chomsky quote, anyway;
“The Internet has compromised the quality of debate.”
So has the slow death of the pub, Noam.