retiredmartin

OK, that title only really works if you pronounce your favourite East Yorkshire resort as “Bride“, but bear with me.

The train from Hull rattled past Beverley and Driffield, normally homes to at least one new GBG tick each year.  This must have been a first tick in Brid for a decade, since the wonderful-looking Telegraph, in fact.

As we passed Burton Agnes (she waved) I took a look at the Facebook page for the Board Inn. Nothing since 2016.  But Google Maps was telling me something weird. And alarming.

Panicked, I took a look at Pubmeister’s rave review, something I should always do before setting off on these jaunts.

Nothing to alarm me in Duncan’s report, and if worst came to the worst I could use a Spoons voucher in the volatile venerable Prior John.

Then something struck me as I sprinted towards the Board, with an hour between trains and 20 minutes to the pub.

I was walking away from the clutch of rumbustious pubs I knew Brid for, towards an Old Town.  Brid has an Old Town ? Bit like discovering that Maidenhead has a soul.

It was all rather magical, rather like discovering Deal Old Town for the first time, though in the dark I couldn’t do it justice.

But it didn’t matter.  Rarely have I been so pleased to find Opening Hours on Google wrong.

The front room was warm and inviting, and the beer range strangely wonderful after several days of homebrew (joking, sort of).

The barman seemed to be rushing around, though it was all beer trade.  I mentioned the rogue opening times; something to do with a Tap Room at the back open weekends only.

There seemed to be more action in the pub than I could see, but I was happy to sit in the public with an impressive if very plummy Porter (NBSS 3.5) and eavesdrop on conversation of Ladies who Pint.

OK, it was conversation in that irritating half whisper that so annoys us nosey pub tickers, but ungrateful uncles at Phantom of the Opera and perfume bargains give you a measure of the classy conversation.

Classy lacings too.

I went for a wander, and literally stumbled on three or four other rooms upstairs that were just gorgeous.

I was reminded of a cross between two rambling places in Stamford, the Sam Smiths and Tobie Norris. How come I’d never heard of the Board before ?

Every room had a group of friends drinking in it, and they all said “Hello“, rather than growling possessively like they’d do in a few pubs I could name.

Dazzling.

I’d missed my first train back to Hull in my admiration for the Board, so I phoned for a Chinese, my usual order, and started walking towards it.

Five minutes later I’d forgotten who I’d ordered my crispy beer and Singapore rice from, and had to phone the lady back and ask who they were.

That’s the new definition of pissed; forgetting who you’ve ordered the takeaway from.

Let the record show; the Royal Chef was the Chinese of the year so far. Can’t wait to go back to Brid now.