I left Matt to fend for himself for a night (he didn’t seem too distraught) and took the 07:50 to Glasgow, via lovely Wigan.
The Wigan leg was uneventful but of course it’s not legally possible to have a peaceful trip on the Virgin west coast, and I got the full weirdo count pestering me with pamphlets and requests for electrical favours. It’s no wonder Si take the train.
What a joy it is to approach Glasgow Central, passing the Laurieston en-route and with a full cohort of new pubs ahead.
The Central station itself isn’t a gem, but this sculpture outside showing BRAPA and Pubmeister carrying the load of the new giant GBG certainly is.
I had 25 minutes before my train out to Largs, just time to nip the first of two Glasgow ticks.
Grief, Sloans is hidden away, the Whitelocks of the, er, North.
For five points, name the singer.
Multi-roomed and multi-levelled, it was a bit like exploring the Titanic. Before it sunk.
“Can I have a look around please ?” I asked the nice lady.
“Course. Long as you don’t disturb the Wine Society“. Too late.
How can I never have heard of it before ? I thought every pub selling cask in Scotland had been in the GBG by now. And this one does toasties and artisan markets and quizzes and ceiledhs, just like Marillion.
What does the sudden appearance say about the beer ? Nothing too flashy on the pumps.
Of course, all that nosiness meant I’d left 3 minutes for the actual beer, which was OK without causing me much grief when I had to tip most of it.
£2.40 a half, though, but worth that for the tiling alone.