No post yesterday, due a lack of internet in my otherwise reliable Wolves guest house (good grief those Everton fans made a mess of the city on Saturday).
So I’ll have to wait till I get home to bring you about 762 posts from Gloucestershire, including a horror show in Cinderford.
In the meantime, a short interlude and a post from last night, brought to you courtesy of Wetherspoons in Bedworth, cruelly overlooked on Mudgie’s shortlist for most beautiful town.
Our Wolves evening started in the Great Western, where Charles, Colin and Paul (Stafford Mudge) met to debate joining the Society for Unusual Christian Names (£13 p.a., cheaper than CAMRA).
There are few finer pubs in the world, and few more imposing approaches than to the Western, particularly with the ongoing works at the railway station.
Half-full at half-five on Monday, but that’s still as much cask being pulled as anywhere in Wolves, even Spoons.
Faggots and grey peas on the menu, but our Norfolk interlopers had polished off the cobs/rolls/barms when I arrived. Food is in scarce supply in Dereham these days.
They’d saved me a great seat from which to record pub contentment at its best.
I have no notes, which means we must have had a great hour of banter about railways, social drinking in the 80s, and the declining quality of Charles’s double entendres.
No Bathams, so we stuck to Holdens, since they own the Western.
Bitter, Golden Glow and Special to finish. One of our group had to spoil it with a guest beer; he probably asked for a sampler as well.
The pub is wonderful, the staff and customers even better. I wish I could tell you the Holdens capped it off.
It didn’t, quite, it was just fine. NBSS 3 throughout, which is good. Speak truth unto power and all that. For once, it might be the beer rather than the pub.
I’ll tell you what beat it when I’ve beaten the Forest of Dean.