More “recommended” pubs for you before I turn to the Top County, which I’ll bring you as soon as I’ve arranged police protection from Tom Irvin.
A rare trip to Sudbury, I thought. But it turns out I was only there 3 years ago. Clearly Mrs RM was distracting me back then.
On another of those gorgeous autumnal afternoons that follow me around, I made a quick stop in Spoons for 2 flat whites before admiring the centre with its church,
and wheelbarrow shop.
In years past you’d have needed a wheelbarrow to lug around the new GBG, but this year’s edition comes without beer descriptions like “citrus”, “citrus” or “citrus” so it fits in a woman’s handbag.
Half an hour walk through the pleasingly unremarkable suburb of Great Cornard (pop. 99% schoolchildren) is the pub which will put Sudbury on the Pub Tourist Trail (particularly when it’s the only pub you can visit without buying a 3 course meal).
The Brook has been designed with a font to annoy/enchant Matthew Lawrenson;
I applaud the local touches, but advise keeping much further away from cows than indicated in the poster at the door.
There’s a blackboard with the ales on, so you can make up your mind and not dither near the bar,
but I don’t recognise any of those so I plonk myself at a table near the bar.
And then it started. A half hour of the irreverent, vibrant, life you get from pubs like the Dove up the road in Bury St Edmunds.
OK, I didn’t have pork scratchings in a half pint mug, and perhaps the Dove wouldn’t stretch to the pint of Tiny Rebel murk in that top photo, but these two could have otherwise been separated at birth.
Locals chatted about Covid, and the strange case of streets in the village of Bures, just down the road, in different tiers. I felt safe in the Brook.
They know how to clean hands.
I stayed for a half, served in a (fresh) pint glass of something from Mighty Oak I can only describe as nectar,
and then headed out, the wrong way, pausing just long enough to spy the Bass wall.
I spoil you, I really do.