I was hoping to whizz through our night in Douglas, but I seem to have taken too many photos, and I’d hate to deny you candid snaps like this one from the Rosemount.
A bit of an epic crawl through the back streets of the capital awaited, once Duncan had skillfully found a free parking place along the Promenade and we’d dumped bags in the Glenfaba Guest House.
Glenfaba turned out to be one of the few places on the Isle not to offer a handpump. Duncan set off on a mission to make sure all the real ale premises (aka potential future GBG entries) were ticked, and that included plenty of modest hotel bars like the nearby Welbeck that would be firmly keg in Blackpool or Bournemouth.
Martin (2) retrieved his dossier of maps and GBG listings, while I dug out my 2007 “Guide to Avoiding Hen Parties on Man“. My preparations were to prove in vain.
We caught up in the Welbeck, and demonstrated how three determined Pub Men can share a half pint of Okells (decent) between them in front of bewildered octogenarians staring at each other over sherry.
Next stop was the Rosemount, not in the Guide but highly recommended by a certain Manx CAMRA legend we were catching up with.
Grief, this was brilliant. Unless you were a beer bore. I quite enjoyed the Steam, drinking well, if deceptively below its 5% (ABV 3.5). Again, superbly kept cool beer.
Multi-roomed, bustling, welcoming, sweary, fun. Like the North Riding without the beer range, or a Sam Smiths before the swearing ban (joke).
Scary descent to the loos, with their gloriously old-fashioned signs.
It was standing room only, so I headed for the boisterous pool room,
where Irish Sea Dave seemed surprised to find us. It didn’t take him long to catch up.
Some weird stuff going on behind us, no doubt, but I was too engrossed in cricket chat to take notes.
Anyway, the Rosemount is the sort of pub you might take for granted in Stockport or Runcorn, but not if you live in Cambridge.
And the Gemmill goal photo is always a sign of a Proper Pub.