Forgot to give you a map. How shoddy.
As shoddy as our detour to the Continental via the Royal Mail sorting office, which inexplicably failed to be a micropub.
Still, the exercise did us all good, I think someone said.
The Conti is the one the two Mudges were looking forward to, with its Unfiltered Joosy Pale Ale and, of course, Moorhouses.
I was becoming adept at asking for non-alcoholic options by now, and equally adept at expecting the worst.
But the Jever Fun was fantastic. Not as fantastic as the real one, but smooth and lacking fizz.
Feel free to send me more samples Jever.
I felt quite continental with my bottle of German almost beer.
But look how the others shun me.
So I was going back to the real stuff in Pub 3, which was my pre-emptive tick for the trip.
Matthew, Luke and I formed a breakaway craft group and stormed up Avenham Park while the trad lot headed for warm Marston’s and a long wait in the Wellington.
The Plug & Taps had just had its big Cloudwater night. It was all gone, apart from a 10% one that even I resisted. BRAPA would have had a pint if it wasn’t his round.
Lovely friendly place, and what a joy to see a choice of two.
Not the pubbiest of places at midday on Friday, but great window views. And whoever brews Rhyd (is it Rhyd ?) would be pleased to taste their own beer here (NBSS 3.5). And I can’t always say that.
Always visit the loos, folks. If you don’t, you’ll miss out on this startling collection of Preston programmes from the glory days of John Beck.
Andas Life After Football will know, the best moustache in football, employed by Paul Raynor as part of Beck’s total football tactics.
Enough fun. On to the Sam Smiths.