The sun had made a brave effort to join me on the east coast, but with ever-present clouds I was glad that Wilson’s, renamed for the star of Tom Hanks’ Castaway, was so close to the station.
On my annual trip to Scarborough I tried in vain to convince myself the town has architectural merit, but it’s all about the bay, isn’t it ?
My tick is up a little hill, always a joy.
Wilsons, aka Leeds Hotel, is one of those big all-day drinking dens you get in seaside towns, a bit like Saddles in Blackpool or the Baron’s Bar in Southport.
Don’t the Yorkies do good pubs ?
The landlord only has space for me on the upstairs balcony; it’s the only time in my life I’ve been escorted up the stairs with the promise of a pint of Plum Porter to follow.
The balcony has a group of Rugby League lads on holiday from Barnsley (do they even do League in Barnsley?)
Bawdy banter, and a great view to the sea and the hills.
Apparently I may have to share the table with another “single“, though it hardly feels like a pub for “singles” of any flavour.
“Make it a blonde” says the witty Wakefield man to our Landlord, just to annoy his wife. I attempt to snigger but fail.
A predictably perfect pint of Plum in a Pride glass (NBSS 4) turns up and I reckon Wilsons is wonderful, particularly when the Barnsley boys declare themselves “Dedicated Methodists” and “Dedicated drunks” for no reason.
Music from Frankie Miller (“Darlin“) and similar modern classics, and a touching encounter (at 2m distance) with an Old Boy in the Gents;
“Fifty of us come here every year” he says. “This year it’s FIFTEEN. Damn Covid“
I trust that’s not the attrition rate, more the gentlefolk’s residual concern about leaving home, and to be honest Scarborough feels plenty busy enough for an October Sunday, even without Boycott and Tetley.
But my last stop would make Scarborough look like Andover on a Sunday night.