Back up the A1 for some more Northumberland GBG action
The day after the hottest day ever (EVER) in Cambridge, I arrived in Amble in a T-Shirt to find everyone in jumpers and raincoats.
Improbably, I’d never been to Amble, just like in the Charlene song.
You’ll know that Seahouses is now Islington-on-Sea (Part IV) with all the Guardianistas in the Ship waiting to see birds on rocks. Amble seemed to be the place for day-tripping Geordies.
Because I can, I’ll call it the Maldon of the North-east. They’ve put some craft huts along the sea front so you can buy tat to take home to Ponteland.
To be fair, you can also buy some nice seafood and nicer coffee, which I did.
I like Amble; it felt like a real place with loads of pubs and modest Italian restaurants.
But I’d come for the pub.
It’s a good job the GBG app directs you to pubs, as this one is tucked away on a quiet housing estate a mile south of the centre.
No it’s not. I got some very odd looks as I walked up to the front door of Mrs Edna Snopplethwaite (possibly an aunt) before realising the Mason’s Arms wasn’t a micropub.
Google Maps corrected the GBG error, and directed me back to a Proper Pub at the foot of the High Street.
I’ve considering telling Amble CAMRA to correct their error, but let’s allow BRAPA to waste a taxi journey first, shall we.
On the plus side, it could be a Sam Smiths, you know.
On the downside, no other customers on Saturday lunchtime and five beers. You’llhave heard of one, at a push.
Oh, I’d picked the homebrew hadn’t I ? Will I never learn.
Warm, foamy, nothingness which I seem to have scored NBSS 2, inexplicably.
I felt sorry for the pleasant barman, required to wear a polo short with the pub name on it, call me “Sir”, and listen to “Uprising” by Muse. Mainly the last one, to be honest.
Back to the puffins.