One last tick in That Somerset, making a late but probably futile bid for my Top 10 counties post, whenever that is.
Ah, Never Stowey, handy for the Quantocks and Samuel Taylor Coleridge devotees. Whoever they are.
A tidy village of 1,373 with a steep walk to the castle mound. The Long Buckby of the South, except Long Buckby doesn’t have the stream running through it. Yet.
I’d been here before, when the Rose and Crown graced the Guide 20 years ago. Yours for £x.
This year, we have the pub next door in the GBG.
The word “unprepossessing” was devised for the George.
One of the most pleasing aspects of the extended GBG20 season has been the number of really basic sweary pubs. The George goes straight to the top of the list.
No service at the bar, but one of 7 blokes called Eddie shout out,
“ees in the smoking shelter aving a fag. Go and shout im”
So I go and ask this bloke for a pint.
But it turns out the Landlord is actually behind the bar all the time, reading his paper. Are they winding me up?
Anyway, another one beer pub, my 12th since 4/7, as I don’t do cider on Mondays due to obscure religious reasons.
It’s a very foamy Exmoor, with that frothy head you Americans lust after, and although no one noticed me I felt at home.
Particularly when the Landlord joins us in the Whingers Angling Club for a second puff in 20 minutes, starting a weird conversation about a local who’d obviously recovered from the virus.
“He looks alright to me”
“ain’t died since Saturday, then”
If he had have died in the George, would anyone notice?