Cornwall looks so close as you walk down from St Budeaux toward the Ferry House on the banks of the Tamar.
If there’d been a little ferry boat I may have been tempted to make a return visit to the distinctive pub across the water, despite my strong aversion to all flags. See if you can spot the Union.
The Union Inn was ably covered by Simon “Station Soiler” Everitt last month, and his ecstatic review, which I read while bumping into people on the walk down the hill, almost persuaded to make a 30 minute detour over Brunel’s bridge.
Where would the nation be without Brunel and Telford ? More to the point, where would it be without BRAPA ?
Anyway, not today, Union.
I stuck with my target, which has a lovely beer garden on what looks like artificial turf or a crazy golf pitch.
BRAPA said of the Ferry House “absolute rubbish“, typical fence sitting there.
Simon’s main complaint was that a local didn’t offer him a chip. To be fair, a local offered me his cheese in Wantage and I immediately declared it the best pub in the world.
I quite liked the Ferry.
The Landlord was a gent, there were beers you’ve heard of,
Old Boys and Gals, not all of them eating fish and chips,
and a general hum of calm (?) only interrupted by Pink’s shouty pop.
A pub where “A pint of Guinness, half of Doom and a pot of tea” makes up the trade is an odd GBG choice, but even Simon agreed the beer was good.
They should call it the Good Beer Guide or something.