retiredmartin

Too far to travel for a new tick, that’ll have to wait till Tuesday in Cornwall, but I DID get Mrs RM to join me on a walk in hilly Cambridgeshire.

Honest, hills.

Well, close enough.

This is the footpath from Spaldwick to Leighton Bromswold, perched on the eponymous high ridge which is a magnet for adventurous walkers.  I counted two today, Mrs RM and myself.

An hour both ways from Spaldwick’s George, whose delights would await our triumphant return.

Mrs RM was a bit cautious of the llamas (or were they alpacas) noting our triumphant arrival.

You’ll remember Bromswold from BRAPA’s equally triumphant visit of 2018., which mirrored the CAMRA attempt to find cask along the A14 A605 for the first GBG.

Back then I left Simon to his lovely (apparently) Wherry and the undivided attention of a long-serving Landlord, while I admired a Grade I listed church whose Wiki entry is longer than my entire blog.

At least today it had a few more visitors, mostly the 30-something professionals in their shorts and singlets seen here admiring the ancient Ruddles sign.

It’s a gorgeous, unfussy pub from the same stable as Ye Olde Sun, just serving 210 villagers rather than a town of 21,000.

Two at the bar, hand wash and handwritten contact details, one in one out at the Gents the only changes from our last visit.

I lie, the Wherry has gone, replaced by a range for the CAMRA-man and the connoisseur.

Here’s what you could have had, 40 years ago or so.

Mrs RM had gone Under Canvas, Under Wraps, like in the Delgardos classic.

No food till 4pm on a Saturday in August, which seems a bit odd, but I guess they know their custom better than I do.  Pipers crisps it was then.

Digfield, just above 3.  Doom Bar, just below.  Mrs RM did them both justice and then got lost on the way to the loos.

Back to Spaldwick.  Like Mary and Joseph in the Bible, we take a detour, to avoid the llamas/alpacas.

A great little walk with vibrant colours to admire, and several places to stop for a comfort break.

The pint of Landlord in the George would taste like nectar when we got there, we thought.