Wasn’t that an album by Cream ?
I spent the night in the car park of the Old Pound Inn at Aller, another place you’ve never heard of before, and never will again.
Tucked away in the Levels, looking to Bridgwater for flat whites and frolics, Aller promises a quiet night.
Wiki says “It is currently the home of Britain’s Second Sea Lord 1993–94, the sponsor of HMS Somerset and one retired bishop of the Church of England, Rev Michael Ball.” Not THAT Michael Ball, thankfully.
Rev Ball wasn’t in the Old Pound, but there were a dozen or so still up at 8pm on Sunday night, hours after most of Somerset is safely in bed with the biography of Peter Roebuck.
The charming young chap behind the perspex confirms I’m free to park my campervan overnight, and I start my evening of food and drink matching.
Butcombe (a foamy NBSS 3) and pickled egg,
followed by Harry’s 6.2% cider, cheese and onion COB and Pipers (£5.50 the lot).
Yes, I know how to live.
It was all good, and a bit of a surprise to be able to get a roll on a Sunday evening (they were serving Sunday roasts till 9pm, too).
It was very Village Pub; professional couples dining near the Dutch fire, old couple hiding under the beams round the corner, and two Stella Men and their invisible wife complaining about the “rank Stella” up the road.
I loved it. Even the weird jukebox, which veered between Jean-Michel Jarre and Chopin and Michael Jackson, albeit a notch too quietly.
There’s a joy about being in a pub with folk drunker than you, as anyone who’s escorted BRAPA to his sixth tick will know.
Oooh, they’re playing Thin Lizzy now. Shall I stay ? No, Simply Red, ugh, time for the Gents and an early night.
Great loos for Russ, too. Yes, this is the Gents…