Onward, onward, to our first night’s campervan stop at Croft-on-Tees*, which you’ve never heard of.
Unless you’re a fan of Croft’s British Touring Car Championship, which was (apparently) taking place mere yards from my 4th and final tick of the night at Dalton (keep up at the back).
But I didn’t know that when Mrs RM deposited me at the door of the Chequers and said “Hurry up“; I just wondered what the loud rumbling sound was.
“What’s the loud rumbling sound ?”
“Have a look on the TV in there” said the landlord, pulling a pint of Ringwood 49er.
My disbelief that a national sporting event was taking place across the road and I had no idea amused the Old Boys anyway. Mind, I’d walked past Lords and not known they were hosting a test the month before, so I’m clearly a cultural phillistine.
The Chequers had clearly benefitted from the extra trade; this was a marvellously crisp pint (3.5), whose only downfall was that it wasn’t Pedigree.
2 miles north we parked up at Croft WMC, against the hedge (don’t ask Mrs RM why).
£5 to park overnight, with an electric point thrown in, and the promise of keg Magnet and free entertainment if their Facebook was to be believed. We’d arrived too late for the Leek show, which sounds like an unreleased Zappa album.
But one should never believe Facebook.
Promising the charity box dogs we’d be back in time for a pint, we headed out for tea.
Be warned, Pauline, it’s POSH tea.
*Courtesy of Search for Sites, which
never rarely fails.