retiredmartin

 

Two more pubs for Taylor’s Toping Taxis (don’t bother nicking it, it’s trademarked), then I can bring you some of my own ticks.  If I get to West Wales before midnight.

 

Two gems that in 90% of the GBG counties would be your Pub of the Year.

We were staggered to hear that Mark, who actually lives in a treehouse in the Horsley Woodhouse GBG regular (below),

doesn’t visit every night.

It’s a quirky, rambling place, a bit micro in feel without the uncomfortable seating and “Thou Shalt Not“. Hitchin John may recall the Radcliffe Arms in Hertfordshire’s coolest pub town; it’s a bit like that used to be.

Foliage everywhere.  And breweriana.

This is the pub that added a separate RuRAD bar in the conservartory to see weird beers at weekends.  Weird Beer Weekends, they called it. I do hope Duncan isn’t relying on his tick in the “Proper” pub.

That’s clearly what Si was wondering as he started on Pint No. 5.

Suddenly, Si’s mood changed.  See him looking all serious.

I guess we all get maudlin after five pints in.  Except Mark, who was rapidly turning into Curry Charles with recollections of Hitler, Stalin, and the difficulty of getting a s**g in Luton.  Si can confirm that bit (not the Luton bit, obvs).

By now I needed to get home, as there was a teenager to feed etc. etc., and I needed to drop Si off at Derby station where he might just squeeze in a sixth pub

I got as far as the end of the road and Smalley before the effects of 3 pints of water and 2 coffees caught up with me.

“You could pop in the Bell“, said Si, helpfully.

The bale of hay in the garden was a bit too exposed, so I nipped to the Gents and Si nipped to the bar.

Another pub buried deep in the recesses/excesses of my mind, it’s my idea of gorgeous with that plush red seating and Tetley signs.

I found Si deep in conversation with one of the barmaids about BRAPA; why can’t you discuss the Irish backstop like the rest of us, Si ?

Anyhow, the barmaids were as chatty as you could hope after six pints, but I was glad to find Si on his best behaviour.

Then suddenly, he said out loud “My little Parma Violets“.  Perhaps he was talking about the two classically dressed customers (top), perhaps it was addressed to the bar, perhaps he’d lost the little packet he’d bought at Derby station.

I will never know.