At 56 there is nothing more exciting in life, bar Mrs RM rustling up tea from “leftovers” than being on a run of new GBG pubs.
After a dull start at the Railway, my next tick was less than 10 minutes
SO WHAT if it’s a Greene King dining pub in a dormitory town for Liverpool ?
My entrance is barred by a couple of scallies sneering as I don my mask.
“Haven’t you heard ? You don’t need to wear that anymore !“
I sort of explain it’s a courtesy to the young staff, but they just twat on. “Don’t need that mate. Ha Ha“.
WHY CAN’T PEOPLE JUST LEAVE OTHER PEOPLE ALONE ?
I keep it on, even though the staff aren’t bothering anymore. In fact, no-one is bothering anymore on Merseyside.
In my experience there’s only three types of pub in Sefton anyway; the square boxy shopping arcade micro selling Peerless pale, the giant brewery-owned roadhouse selling Peroni and Prosecco, and the Wetherspoons.
Somehow, the Cross House manages to do a bit of all three.
An upbeat, helpful barman seems to applaud my choice of Peerless, which makes me think it may be the only pint pulled that day. “There you go, Boss. There you go“.
It’s one of the most upmarket Greene King houses you’ll see, bit like those ones in Headingly and Crookes that emerged a decade ago with a dozen beers and rare Van Morrison cuts.
I liked it, despite everything, and the Triple Blonde was bearing up well enough in the searing heat (NBSS 3).
I decided to walk through town to Freshfield station to catch the next train. If I tell you this was the highlight you can guess how impressed I was.
If I hadn’t stopped to admire the dog wash I might have popped in The Freshfield for you, but given it’s identical to the Cross House there was no point. Bet there weren’t mask bullies on the door there, though.