My second comfort break came an hour or so after my first, on the western outskirts of Carlisle.
Ignore the blue line running through the city, it’s not the cask/keg divide.
To be honest the Wellington in tiny Great Orton was experiencing a quiet lunchtime, away from the tourist honeypots of Carlisle and the stretch of muddy coast with views to Gretna.
But you can’t ignore a pub that recommends hanging children from washing lines.
Or greets you with the brightest Christmas display since Thursford, and invites you to form an impromptu piano and lute duo and sing one of the 30+ versions of “While Shepherds Washed Their Socks” sung in Barnsley pubs.
It’s what Americans expect from an Olde English pub, along with Budweiser and payment by card.
No diners, just two Old Boys at the bar who nod a wary acknowledgement and hum along to Jim Reeves.
To prove what a grump I am I had the sole non-Yuletide beer on the bar, served in a sad thin glass but tasty and cool (NBSS 3).
Then someone put on tge Chris Rea, didn’t they. There’s always one.
You know, that bench seating will look great once they’ve taken the tat off.