I have the inside of a Proper Pub for you !
Next stop, Dawlish, another Devonian stop on my 1998 megatrip.
This seagull had been waiting for my return.
Dawlish, not to be confused with Dawlish Warren (named after the duff Martin Clunes comedy), is a quaint fishing village-turned-gentle seaside resort*.
Gentle, except for scary looking sea serpent (pandas are cuddly).
My spreadsheet says I stopped here 22 years ago for the Swan, but all I remember is buying a bag of apples for 50p. Memory is weird, isn’t it ?
Loads of Proper Pubs, including a rare outing for the livery of Foster’s, presumably a long-closed Totnes brewery. Stafford Paul will know.
Not sure what you actually DO in Dawlish, bar stare at the sea and wait for the plague or go to the Laundrette.
Oh, the White Hart, my GBG tick.
Hand wash and contact details apart, this felt like a return to normality, right down to the dart board above the local’s head.
A choice of two pumps, Jail Ale and Teingworthy, which is possibly more of a choice than strictly necessary for a dozen blokes drinking lager.
But after what seems like WEEKS of me being stuck in a beer garden and tended to by a greeter, it’s nice to see bench seating, isn’t it ?
You can probably guess that the soundtrack was Chris Rea, which is close enough to Dire Straits, I guess. It was Chris’s long track that sounds a bit like Division Bell Pink Floyd. Oh, it is Pink Floyd says my phone.
I park along the wall with a decent Teignworthy (NBSS 3) and get politely interrogated by the nearest bloke.
“Are you here on holiday”
“No, just visiting pubs, like”
He looked confused, and went back to his pint of Foster’s.
*I’ll call it the Hornsea of the South-West and hope you’ve never been to Hornsea to compare it.