Still in the hitherto unexplored suburbs of Bournemouth, still bringing you one pub at a time as I wait for the laptop to be repaired. I hope all those Bass mirrors don’t count as porn.
Loads of pubs in Bournemouth “proper”, a spectacular zero in the Beer Guide, as all the micros head to the suburbs and abandoned insurance shops.
Face it. The Silverback is never getting listed, is it ?
Look familiar ?
But I don’t judge pubs by their exterior, but by the good cheer of their owner and customers.
Though it’s hard to excuse the high tables.
The owner was chatting to a family who’d brought their KFC in from over the road. It felt a bit like the cider micro in Dover, though at least here they weren’t trying to get children to eat pickled eggs.
“Don’t judge me, I’m pissed” said micro dad, either because he was licking his fingers or because KFC lacks cred.
Bring your own food ? Bring your children ? Not sure it’s very Herne-compliant, and thank heaven for that. Pubs should be inclusive.
I could even work out what beers they had on, possibly a first.
Resisting the offer of a sampler, free or otherwise, I went for the one named after Hartley Wintney’s top beer man Citra. And not just because it’s the strongest. Oh no.
Looks a bit flat, doesn’t it ? But my note says “cool, tasty 3.5” so that’s the end of it.
They were playing what appeared to be called “Iron Maiden FM” – can that be right ?
As Bruce started into “Run for the hills” (de de de, de de de), the owner singing along, I walked off to the Spoons.