That last post was a struggle. The best pub experiences are almost impossible to describe. That’s why I’ve never written about the Dead Poets Inn or Halcyon Quest, and possibly never will do.
Reading back, I see I may have been a bit rude about micropubs. But Monk is tinier than the average micro, so it’s not the number of rooms that matters.
Let’s see if I can be nice about the three micros along the A6 to Stockport, shall we (Spoiler : No).
The plan was to take the train to Disley, in darkest Cheshire, then catch trains back to New Mills and Chapel before being arrested for “breaking journeys on Wednesdays” or something.
Those goldfish bowls on Bing Map shows what Malt Disley is best known for.
Paul joined us in Malt, unable to contain his mirth at such a witty play on words (“Jalt Dispey was a full-back for nearby Stockport County in the 1930s“).
Aren’t micropub names brilliant ?
And aren’t their frontages distinctive ?
Two upstanding young couples, and a well dressed Old Boy with a huge glass of wine sitting at the bar. He eyed Charles with suspicion, as well he might.
Paul asked for a beer that wasn’t too Citra like or something. Quite why it wasn’t obvious what the beers contained from the pumpclips I’ll never know.
Some will say cosy, some will say Ugggh, some will see only the Daily Express with it’s tales of impending ice age/heatwave/earthquake in Disley.
Despite playing “Theme from Shaft” and the beer being OK(2.5), we couldn’t warm to it.
Already, these modern town centre micros that specialise in gins and flavoured ciders look like a chain, something Monk never could.
Paul suddenly realised he’d completed his 10 hour drinking day, and that the next two GBG ticks would be more of the same, so hotfooted it back to the station.
Charles and I hit the towpath into New Mills.(Handy for the hills etc).