On the Saturday morning I walked off the cobwebs in Cardiff Bay.
One of these days I’ll revisit the last surviving boozers in Bute before they close for good, replaced by chain pizzeria.
Some impressive cider based art on display near the Parliament.
One quick stop on the way back, in the tangle of villages on the Herefordshire/ Gloucestershire border. Five miles and five lifetimes from Ross on Wye.
No doubt Simon will be looking to cadge a lift to the Beauchamp Arms in Dymock, probably on the back of a tractor, when he gets to “G” in 2022.
Owned by the parish, it has that community/ACV feel, though without the gastro menu.
Everything is dead or nearing death.
The folk are pleased to have their pub safe, anyway.
It’s as much a parish council meeting as a pub, with debates some way from the weather/ football norm.
The Old Boy in front had the last of the Ledbury Bitter, which spluttered to a finish just below the level that a Teesider might consider acceptable.
“I’ll have it anyway” I offered.
“Just a quid then please”
That’s the spirit of free enterprise.
Truth be told it was a bit foamy and nondescript, but having asked for the end of the barrel I can hardly complain.
Great fire. Nice flies.
retiredmartin 
Beauchamp Arms, not Beaumont Arms 😳
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Cheers. Can’t even read it off the wall on that photo. Bit of an undiscovered area, isn’t it, reminds me of Shrops/Staffs border near High Offley (no Anchor equivalent though).
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There couldn’t possibly be an Anchor equivalent anywhere – and I’m not just saying that because that’s where I met my dear wife.
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Apart from a few honeypots, most of the English side of the Welsh marches is like that. I assume you’ve been to the Alma at Linton, which is quite near there?
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Yes, the Alma is a decent pub, though I caught it on one of its beer festivals so hard to tell how much casual trade it gets.
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Speaking of the Robinsons there’s a woman comes in my local who drinks at least half a dozen pint bottles of Bulmers every night.
She spends most of the rest of her waking hours under a sunbed and is the colour of burnt oak.Not that this has anything to do with the punchline but it’s just an observation.
Anyway,when Ms Six Pints Of Cider walks in every night someone,occasionally me,always whispers to the rest of 5’o’clock club, ” enter the flagon. ”
We still have to explain it to Mickey Two Gulps sometimes.
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Is your entire village pissheads, Prof ;-0
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Most of them.
The rest just like a few sociable pints.
It’s Ireland,young Martin.What else do you think people do here ?
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Beat the other egg chasers ?
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Well, arguably, the spectacle of twenty-two blokes on a pitch, pretending to be seriously injured, is beaten by one of thirty of them, pretending not to be, I suppose.
But why do the aficionados of the first celebrate, by pulling imaginary toilet chains alternately with their left and right arms?
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Pretending to be injured is an art form.
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Yes, most people only go to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake for the Dying Swan bit.
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All community pubs are by their very nature top notch. Not sure 30 people play rugby in Ireland to pretend not to be injured 😉
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“I’ll have it anyway” I offered. “Just a quid then please” –Thanks for including this little exchange. Always a pleasure when the rules are adjusted, and you suddenly feel we’re always just a step or two away from bartering for goods.
(But do you secretly wish you’d have started again with something else?)
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Why do I have this image of a future blog where Simon has been traded for half a pint of Doombar somewhere in the Broads?
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