Next up the highlight of the trip, after some bloke called The Wickingman said “Did you have the Bass at St John ?” this Summer.
Isolated Cornish pub, Draught Bass stronghold, 2pm opener so wet-led, where has it been all my life.
Down tiny lanes you don’t want to drive, that’s where.
DO NOT DRIVE !
Baa Baa Toure looked worried, and he was being given a lift. Mrs RM complimented me on walking down the hill. I made a note of that.
How do their nerves stand it ? We had to jump into hedges at 30 second interval, though I suspect we fared better than this fella.
Odd little place, St. John.
The volume of traffic had me thinking the eponymous pub would be packed,
But it was just us. Perhaps it’s a rat run (!) to HMS Raleigh.
We were shown to our table, from which I could see The Only Choice.
Sadly, it was The Only Choice for Mrs RM, as I’d offered to be DES today, but that lone swig confirmed this was legendary Bass of the cool, crisp, tight head variety (See also : Swan at Milton, Derbys and Black Lion in L. Buzzard).
The lovely landlord was an escapee from the Wirral; I should have asked him about The Magazine but instead we talked Covid precautions, Londoners on holiday and how nice the local CAMRAs were.
On the way back up (1:11) Mrs RM seemed less sure of my decision to walk. An old lady in a Corsa said “You haven’t REALLY walked up that hill have you !”, and that seemed to justify the decision in her mind. Funny thing, psychology.