A couple of years ago Pub Curmudgeon ran a poll to decide the UK’s best town, unexpectedly won by Mansfield after a VAR review.
Richmond (the real one) scored well, which surprised me a bit as I’d never really got it, till a spring trip to the Holly Hill which provided some staggering views from the south toward the castle.
I’ve marked Richmond on the OS map in relation to Scotch Corner, so Simon will know where the border is now he knows it isn’t Hadrian’s Wall.
Anyway, I’m starting to work Richmond out now. The view from Maison Dieu is even better,
but it’s the cobbles down Frenchgate that win me over. Great in winter I bet.
I can see the problems I’ve had with the town when I reach the market place; decimated by traffic and rampaging gentlefolk fighting over pasties and pashminas.
Not really a town of great pubs, either, unless you count the George and Dragon a mile out of town. And none of today’s visitors are going to be walking a mile to Hudswell, I’ll tell you that.
Even the five minutes to the Buck was a steep little jaunt.
A really unpretentious local, promoting its views from the garden (which were wonderful) and presumably this informal creche;
Just one cheery Old Boy in, or rather popping out for a fag on the steps, which made the beer range look a little ambitious for a Tuesday lunchtime. A funicular from the market would help.
But the Boltmaker was superb, rich and cool (NBSS 3.5), and the beermats well-worn.
Proper bench seating, after a fashion.
“Turned out alreet” said the Old Boy.
He weren’t wrong.