This pub blogging business is very competitive. Having lost out on the Pipers sponsorship deal to that Bailey fellow (I’m not bitter Paul, but watch your back), I’m exploring other monetisation opportunities.
The Tripe Society offered me 0.0257p each time I mention chitterlings, for example, and Maidenhead‘s MP has offered me a quid each time I don’t visit that town. Fortunately, that deal doesn’t cover Mrs RM, who now has a Head Office there (she really does).
Perhaps Southern Vectis will sponsor me this Spring, if I refrain from mentioning the lack of spring in their dreadful Isle of Wight buses.
“Isle of Wight ? There’s no such place !” you say.
But there it is, on my spreadsheet. Taunting me with its 17 pubs to do.
Inspired by PubHermit and his discovery of the mythical lost isle, I abandoned plans to follow BRAPA round Purbeck like a puppy dog and set off myself for some foreign travel, keen to take a large bite out of those 17.
(Cue obligatory passport shot)
Over an exceptional Full English the nice man at Brantwood Guest House had told me that it was theoretically possible to get from Christchurch to Wight in a couple of hours. And he was theoretically right.
But you’re obliged to spend nineteen minutes in Brockenhurst, which is nineteen minutes more than any human should be obliged to spend there. No ponies, but the church looks atmospheric in black and white.
I was, I confess, disproportionately excited to be heading to Wight. That heady combination of ferries, a new language and expectations of warm beer was intoxicating.
But what do you do at Lymington Pier for 40 minutes that isn’t punishable by stoning to death ?
Admire the views over Pylewell Lake ?
Overhear conversations by twitchers you can recycle in future blogs ?
No. You buy the brand new Isle of Wight CAMRA Pub Guide from Costa Coffee.
A superb (if ambitiously priced) publication that kept me amused for the 40 minute trip to Yarmouth, while the other four (4) foot passengers debated other essential purchases at the café.
I tell you, I haven’t been as excited at a disembarkation since I landed at JFK back in ’88, reliving the U2 song off Joshua Tree.
I strode confidently to the King’s Head, my first new Guide tick on Wight for a decade.
Oooh, hidden down little streets. Bet it’s great.
It was closed.