Yes, I walked up there, from the Bicknoller Inn. Hero.
Apparently I made it to the top of Thorncombe Burrow, in the bosom of the Quantocks.
Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I felt drowsy at the summit in a field of fernand dozed off 20 minutes, dreaming about GBG delivery day and missing all the other ramblers walking past me.
The view, as they say, is priceless.
Except of course, it isn’t quite priceless.
Back down at Bicknoller I thought “What a pretty church“. An old lady walked past me and said “What a pretty church, isn’t it ?”. Great bants. We need more church reviews from BRAPA, I feel.
Ah, it’s open.
Unspoilt by gastroification, I thought.
You can trust Palmers, I always think. Or is that Donnington ?
It was too nice to sit in, so I sat outside and enjoyed the holiday hubbub. A girl called Emily (surely ?) dragging here toy dog under the tables, a return to the car to fetch sunscreen, and admonition when Emily attempted to retrieve a dropped chip.
The Palmers IPA was unexpectedly superb, a smooth, rich NBSS 4. And I rarely score above 3, as you know.
I had the homemade lamb curry as well, also a triumph, if no bargain.
Then I went on a tour of a rambling gem.
And brought back a souvenir of Preston for Matthew Lawrenson.