Of course, the question is “What’s that Swan wearing on his/her/their head ?”
Post 1 from the Grand Tour comes from Wighill, dangerously close to BRAPA and Emma’s parents, so I’d better be kind.
The late Richard Coldwell, who lived almost next door, never mentioned the White Swan which says a lot.
The highlight is, obviously, the journey over the mythical Tadcaster bridge, but Wighill itself offers only a tree-lined avenue which theoretically leads to our second pub. But I don’t advise that journey.
Mrs RM and I were just discussing our ability to tell what county we’re in just by looking at the buildings (OK, the pubs). The White Swan could only be in North Yorkshire (OK, possibly Wetherby at a push).
Sunday afternoon, the gravy-smeared plates collected, the Swan is bursting with village life.
It’s brilliant. Perhaps 14:30 is the golden hour for village pubs.
At the bar I debate the probability of rain (“low”), and decide on the Theakston.
Mrs RM tosses a metaphorical coin and gets to drive me,
which fills me with momentary dread, (joking).
With our next pub threatening early closure, it’s a quick half.
I can tell which county I’m in by looking at the exterior; you guess the NBSS.