A night around Brecon, another 3 GBG pub town that I’d only ever been to once, back when “Love Is All Around” was Number 1. Mind you, that narrow it down to between 1993 and 1995, given how long it was top of the charts.
I know it’s got hills and all that, but is Brecon worth a visit in its own right ?
Yes, but it’s no Abergavenny or Monmouth, more like a Llanberis for the Brecons, which means there’s no Spoons and the B&Bs are the most expensive so far.
But the walks are free.
Three very different guide entries along a half-mile stretch of the main road out of town. A pub crawl for the very lazy walker.
The first one is the micro/tap/craft bar, a long narrow shop conversion built to appeal to the Mrs RMs of the world. Oddly, no music, which may suit Herne micro fanatics but means a bit of a dead atmosphere.
One other customer in the Brecon Tap at 3pm on a Thursday, and she isn’t drinking the cask. Three beers I’ve never heard of, their relative paleness highlighted by those vital jam jars.
I pick the middle one, a pale murky neo-soup of a beer (NBSS 2), not that bad but I leave it after a fruitless search for a pot plant. CAMRA should signal the availability of pot plants for tickers to tip away their beer surreptitiously.
Still, it clearly improves choice in the town, and that’s what matters in our choice-obsessed world, isn’t it ?
A pleasing lack of choice in the Clarence;
Butty Bach or Bitter ? That’s the sort of decision I like.
A couple of Old Boys in a classic unimproved bar.
But a dozen or more out in the gorgeous garden, which gives me ample opportunity to ditch a decent but swiftly lukewarm half of Butty after a couple of mouthfuls (NBSS 2). No doubt someone will ask why I didn’t take a slightly too warm beer back.
Still, the Clarence was a warm, friendly pub, and gave me an opportunity to bring you another of those distorted photos that my extensive customer research shows you demand. Thanks Pauline.
Across the road, the ghosts of Beer Guides past illuminate this pub. Five points for a correct identifications.
It looks like it was a cracker.
You’ll know my views on rugby and social clubs, but at least it’s a proper sign.
One other Old Boy on the Carling, and the friendly barman pulls the Sea Fury through thoroughly for the first pint of the day.
That Sharp’s (top) was the best of the bunch (NBSS 2.5), but even then it wouldn’t convert you to cask.
And as I walked into the hills, I couldn’t help but think if this summer was doing for marginal cask outlets what 1976 apparently did more effectively than Watney’s. By the head of the canal basin, dozens of tourists were enjoying a pint of Peroni. I should have joined them.