The plan after Swalwell had been to jump off in Chester-le-Street and tick the irritating Masonic Club with its 7.30pm opening and initiation rules.
But some trains from Newcastle neglect C-l-S, pronounced Le Street, and I cut my losses at 10.
Durham is marvellous, isn’t it?
My niece’s boyfriend is doing a Post Grad there, but like the rest of the students he’s finished and left town, so I couldn’t buy him a Bass in the Half Moon.
Even worse, the chip shop in the market square was shut.
The Market wasn’t though.
A belter of a town pub in a city where pubs are sometimes better than beer quality outside of term time.
The Market may be Greene King but the Double Maxim lives on, a rich vinuous drop (3.5, again).
Last time here Mrs RM found the “6pm swearing” a bit too much and walked out, but tonight was just the right side of lively.
Just time to admire Britain’s worst High Street.
Back at the Shoes I eschewed (see what I did there) a sensibly chosen beer, and slept the sleep of Bishops (Durham).
But it’s the breakfast you’ll be wanting to see, isn’t it?