Blimey, only 10 days into the Great Re-opening and a second trip into the North Derbyshire mining villages for a real life, palpable GBG tick.
Days after conquering Clay Cross we were back down the A61 for a tick we could have added to the Three Horseshoes if I’d bothered to do proper research and realise the Tupton Tap was open earlier than expected.
Hope you’re keeping up, Russ.
Actually, Tupton, in Old and New incarnations, looks like a Clay Cross suburb, and our pre-opening walk is very suburban.
I know some of you follow this blog for fashion advice, and I can unreservedly recommend Beautylicious/Salon One for all your beautifications needs (not Mrs RM, she’s beautiful enough already. Oh dear is that objectification ?).
Our lunch options seemed to be not one, but TWO (2) branches of Nisa Local half a mile apart. Now, Nisa are probably the supermarket you least want to see when you’re compiling an artisanal picnic, possibly after Premier.
And this one is short on Brixham pate and ripened Bakewell goats cheese, but is beautifully laid out and we spent what seemed an hour finalising our purchases (arrayed on Derbyshire grass at top).
A feast for the King of Old Tupton that cost £4.07, and most of it only a few months out-of-date.
I have no idea why the Luke Evans of Riddings Jumbo Cheese and Onion Roll looks like this;
Our walk through round Cowlishaw Wood and the stables of Martin Lane (a disappointment despite being named after me) are bucolic in part, but spoilt by the tell-tale signs of future micropubs.
Unexplored Britain, can’t beat it. A curmudgeonly old guy at the top of Martin Lane brought us back to reality.
“Can’t make up its mind. Bound to rain in 10 minutes“.
10 minutes later we were at the entrance to the Tupton Tap. People will read this blog in 10 years time and wonder what this was all about;
A village famed for top arrow thrower John Lowe but here the home of a family cribbage meet. As required in all CAMRA pubs, here they are raising glasses to toast the start of the cribbage season.
It’s an Ashover pub, or seems to be, and is flogging a lot of pints on a damp Wednesday at 3.30pm. The rich Poets Tipple is a banging 3.5/4 and my beer of the embryonic year so far.
But I’d rather be inside, and fake a trip to the toilet to lick photograph the hand pumps on the way out. Is “faking a trip to the toilet” a thing ?
Since Mark will ask, the soundtrack was Al Green and Bill Withers. One pint for guessing each track.
But NO points for a Russ comment on Mr. Zogs Sex Wax.