Another trip to Letchworth for the lad’s driving lessons, another chance to relive sweet, sweet memories of the town where Mrs RM and I started married life in 1992.
It’s unchanged, Since 1935, never mind 1992.
Actually, some things have changed. The Black Squirrel (as I knew it) had more names than Ian Clarkson had clubs, and always looked like it MIGHT serve Bass before it died shortly after starring in The World’s End.
It had been the Quaker-driven town’s first Proper Pub (they had Carling), but recent years have seen a craft explosion in the Garden City.
Not that there’s much sign of it in the suburbs, unless you call IPA in the Two Chimneys craft.
and a Timbo emporium (ALWAYS open).
Regular readers will recall this was where I took Mrs RM on the occasion of our 25th Wedding Anniversary, my being thrifty and all. We just gave up on remembering wedding anniversaries after that, as it couldn’t be topped.
I would have put this in my Top 3 Worst Spoons, James thought it was terrible, but it actually seemed better than its croaky old man norm, “less leary” I wrote.
The perspex dividers are a contentious feature.
I’d noted a half-hearted attitude to track and trace in Spoons when pubs returned, but here the staff flitted from table to table, helping septuagenarians to load apps or write their names on scraps of paper.
It was great to see the Paulines and Sheilas having such fun guessing their estimated departure time, the most fun they’d had since 1976.
That attention to detail was lacking in stock control, as the Doom Bar had run out. And you thought 2020 couldn’t get any better.
So I had to match my 10 chicken bites with a solid Jaipur, which as beer sommeliers will know is a poor match.
Sadly, Mrs RM and I had left LGC Central for Hitchin before the Spoons opened, or we may never have left. A pub with 2 mobility scooters and 5 handpumps is something to be treasured.