First rule of blogging. Stick a pub cat in there somewhere. Even if the Landlord can’t be bothered to name it. Simon and I called him Mudgie. Or Madgie if it was a girl, I didn’t look/ask.
Pub 3 was the Duke’s Arms in Burton Latimer. My top readers, i.e. the Americans, will remember this from a fortnight ago (or 37 posts ago in real money). It’s the one with Nicole’s A Little Peace stuck to the wall.
You can look for yourself to see what this Duke is like, Mann’s sign and all.
Here’s the Quote of the Week; makes a change from the Husband Creche sign.
“It smells of pub” said Si, who knows these things. (It may have been my samosa).
The Landlord neither remembered me, or recognised Simon from “Dorset Detective Daily“, but his brusque style won us over again.
“What’s the cat called ?”
“Doesn’t have a name. There’s only one of them” etc. etc.
“Have a pint of that Abbot Confessional, Si. Go on”
“You can’t. I’m saving it for myself“. Or something similar. I think Si had Phipps.
The pub is a riot of colour, with the biggest selection of sambuca in East Northants (FACT).
And seems to be the HQ of the Burton Latimer branch of the Blyth Spartans supporters club.
Loads to see, inside and out. The Landlord seemed totally un-phased by us wandering round taking photos (“It’s all tat from the junkyard“).
Put us out of our misery, Russ. It’s Donald Sutherland, isn’t it ?
If there’s a danger we start to treat pubs as informal art galleries, then so what ? Rather this than sit on a sofa watching Bake Off like the other 98% of the population.
And the beer ? A grapefruit flavoured murk from Moor.
No, orange juice, the Italian stuff, no rubbish.
All it lacked was a bit of mid-afternoon custom, which tipped up about 22 minutes into our BRAPA-approved 27.5 minute stay.
Neither of them were allowed the 8.5% Abbot, either.
Next up, two gastropubs.