I’ve no idea why you’re reading this when you should be doing the BRAPA Quiz.
Perhaps I’ll do a highbrow version of Si’s Quiz for my own 5th anniversary, and hide pub reference in Wesley hymns. You can never have enough Wesley on this blog.
I sense this wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of Wroot by Mehetabel, which remains a better name for a Ukranian forward than the sister of our most revered preachers.
To be fair, a flat area between Doncaster and Scunthorpe is quite a hard sell.
Except for pub tickers, of course.
And possibly fans of Lincolnshire prisons and peat.
I should have asked Axholme Rob for a tour of the area; I think he lives down the road. Instead I was met at the entrance to Wroot by learner horse drivers who said “Hulloa“.
Looing at that second map, I see at least half a dozen surrounding villages with former GBG pubs, nearly all serving John Smiths Cask and something exotic like Old Mill.
But 2019 is Wroot’s year in the sun/mist//rain. It’s possible the village store is selling commemorative mugs and village trails, but it’s closed. Obvs.
The Cross Keys is reassuringly solid.
At the door, a sign for Wroot Rock. I can assure you that £15 to see Tankus the Henge is better value than £253 (inc. fees) for Glasto, and the beer will be better.
More local events than in many villages ten times the size, though you’ll have to wait till December for the Wroot Amateur Players‘ take on “Alice In Cuckoo Land”, which sounds like political commentary. Posters from earlier performances dominate the right-hand bar.
I enter to the sound of Cliff Richard, always reassuring, though it’s “Miss You Nights” rather than the any of his deep album cuts from the mid-70s. Line dancing is the national sport on the Isle of Axholme, of course.
“Well used by locals” says WhatPub. I guess 10% of the adult population are in, which is pretty good for a Sunday where food isn’t dominating.
I picked the quieter bar, which has as peaceful a feel as a Fen boy can hope for.
“Shame about the cushions“, says one of you.
Let it be noted that no-one stared as I came in, and the welcome at the bar was genuine and cheery, if tempered by jam jars.
My brain works out that Theakston is the locals’ beer. I get an automatic top-up and a “You’re welcome !” rather than a “No problem“, which is nice.
As is the Best Bitter, a creamy half with honey overtones* that I put down to having been sucking on a throat sweet for the previous 20 minutes. NBSS 3, and better than the two GBG pubs in Masham itself.
One lady slaps her husband in a comical fashion that suggests pre-season training for the panto, and I consider an edit of that Hull street art, but think better of it.
*Beer sommelier, me.