Well, well, the world is full of misery today, isn’t it ?
So I’m guessing what you want to read about are the joys of a walk in the wonderful North Somerset countryside, where Stella and blackberry matching is de rigueur,
and ending at the pebbled beach at Porlock Weir (the Porth Dinllaen of the south),
and a(nother) pint of Otter in the Ship Inn.
Great conversation underneath the Exmoor parasol with the barmaid;
“Can I have a beer ?” “Yes”
“Can I come in ?” “Yes”
“Can I sit inside ?” “Yes”
I’m not being funny, we should clone that barmaid.
Now, the Ship will confuse young BRAPA, what with there being two identically named Guide entries a mile apart.
It’s confused Bing Maps as well, which determinedly tells me there IS no pub called the Ship at the Weir.
I’m a little wary of going in the entrance marked “Bar” just in case the real GBG entry is the vast whitewashed hulk behind.
And I’m also a little confused, if thrilled, at being allowed INSIDE the Ship, and allowed a beer before noon.
In fact, despite seeming to depend entirely on gentlefolk asking for flat whites (“It’s a white coffee, that OK“), the Ship seems closer to Proper Pub than anything seen on my South-west Saunter this last month.
You don’t get bar staff marking Jane’s divorce on ancient beams in a Brunning & Price, do you ?
The Otter Amber is cool and crisp, an easy NBSS 3+. “This time I know it’s for real (ale)” sings Donna Summer, “Call Me” says Debbie Harry, as pubs return to ’80s synth pop and all is well with world. Well, my world.
No, I didn’t attempt to drive up Porlock Hill to Lynton. That can wait.