The weeks have started to develop a pattern. Pop down to Waterbeach once a week, stopping at the East Markham McDonalds (I’m sponsoring No.107 next season),
take Dad to 3 new garden centres with weird pot plants (he ticks the centres in ochre. Possibly),
then stop somewhere interesting in the campervan on the way home the next day.
Sometimes the gods of ticking smile on me and I get TWO GBG pubs within walking distance of my overnight spot.
As with Rempstone (pop.367), whose lovely all-rounder White Lion looked oddly familiar as I turned up in the Monday deluge.
I apologise, and give a little whoop of joy as I see what’s on the bar.
The barmaid ushers me to a corner seat next to the Old Boy,
away from the younger residents, who are engaged in administrative business over their Carlings, possibly the Rempstone Steam and Country Show.
“Would you mind seconding that ?”
“Old Dave Roberts will know“
“You have no authority here !“
“He needs a PSA blood test“. etc etc
Great but incomprehensible stuff.
I focus on the Bass, because I know the Wickingman will want to know the score.
It really is hit or miss whether you’ll find Bass in your East Midlands boozer, but if you do it’s more than likely to be pretty well kept. This was cool, crisp and leaves distinctive lacings (NBSS 3.5).
My attempt to pay the £3.80 with precise coinage results in a coin rolling under my seat. Being English, I am too embarrassed to go hunting for what I guess is a 5p, though I see the Old Boy’s eye light up as he surveys my feet, and I imagine him rummaging around for it when I pop to the Gents.
“Do you sell umbrellas ?” I ask the barmaid, attempting conversation, badly.
“No, sorry” she says, but I know I’m on safe ground ruminating on the weather.
And I know that with my luck the rain will have given way to sunshine by the time I leave, by the wrong door.