My torment of being kept from saving pubs only lasted a day before Mrs RM tempted me to the wilds of “sort of posh” Doncaster.
Look how empty that bit of rural South Yorkshire east of Donny is before you get to cosmopolitan Epworth.
It took ages to get here, and I can’t even blame Mrs RM’s directions; I just wanted to see the Robin Hood Airport.
Behind that fence, cans of Stones Bitter are loaded onto fighter airplanes headed to countries without proper beer, like America and Canada.
This is a rare venture into the flatlands of Yorkshire, an area noted for longstanding GBG entries in Auckley and, er, that’s about it. You have to pass the Blue Bell at Blaxton crossroads to get to the Station, which is what we tickers call “modernised village dining Class II“.
They’ve spent a fortune refurbishing the outdoor area and adding heaters, so after signing in at being told to take a seat Mrs RM obviously takes the ONLY table without a brazier (calm down, Russ).
It’s chilly, and after 5 minutes Mrs RM is sent into the night to secure a better table under the chandeliers. She succeeds.
Now, it’s at this point some of you may be thinking “That pub looks familiar“.
And you’d be right, young BRAPA only visited a week before us, on his Thursday night. As so often Simon Sums it up Succintly;
“Problem was, the staff never got as far as me without being summoned. Stranded. No drink. No way of getting their attention. And the whole bloody pub could see my predicament! “You never get anywhere in life being pleasant mate!” said Mr White Shirt eventually, when I say I could see how busy the staff were and I didn’t want to go over and pressure them !”
No-one came. For 10 minutes we pondered doing the “waving arm in the air and mouthing “Garcon” bit“.
Eventually I was dispatched INSIDE the pub, where 3 “servers” were chatting, one of whom urged me to go back outside and await further guidance. I spied a Black Sheep handpump, hidden out of view.
5 minutes later, one of them appeared.
“What can I get you ?” We had NO IDEA what they had, of course.
“What beer have you got, real ales ?” asked Mrs RM.
“We’ve got Kronenburg, Stella, Perroni…” reading from screen
“Any real ales, cask ales, (international sign of handpump), Black Sheep ?”
“No real ales. No Black Sheep. We’ve got a “Guest Ale” though !“
It was Black Sheep. Really. Pretty good too (NBSS 3+), but oh the torment of table service.
“That’ll be £11.75. When you’re ready” thrusting the card reader into my face. That’s YOUR double G & T, Mrs RM.
Still, a tick, a decent pint, and more Yorkshire blossom. Life is Good, even if Table Service is Bad.