Here I go, reeling you in with cuddly fish and promises of Bass again.
This next one is a real curate’s egg, in this case the curate of Plympton, my base for the exploration of the Miners Arms in Hemerdon.
Take a look at the expanse of nothingness below Drakelands Mine (Wolf Minerals); that’s where they’re hiding the copies of the GBG 20 ahead of delayed posting this September.
So here we have a Dartmoor destination pub of solid stone,
classic ’70s furnishings,
and plenty of irreverent drinkers at the bar enjoying those hooks on which to hand your Official BRAPA man bag.
And of course our friend Simon.
Anyway, back to the bar. One other ale drinker, and he wasn’t drinking Bass, but I had to.
Devon has a rich history of Bass drinking, as we’re shortly to discover.
In it’s own glass, out in the paddock amongst the chompers and pashminas, I reckoned I’d found a little slice of heaven.
But the first sip was a touch disappointing, and a scummy head rapidly descended into drabness.
You might think that’s a subtle difference, it really isn’t. More drone shots of the heads on beers are needed.
Anyway, desperately disappointing, doubly for it being Bass.
They’d kindly provided a drain.
Oh, sorry, that was actually the well wherein lie the remains of the last ticker to take a pint back. I cut my losses and walked back to Plympton.