Five minutes on from Sellafield and Mrs RM was parking up in Gosforth (not THAT one).
This is the ancient village (pop. 1,230) where groups of Londoners stock up on supplies for their Air B & B in the Lakes.
Look, Yanks, It’s ancient.
I didn’t do Latin but I reckon that means “Closed. Open sometime Thursday”.
Mrs RM made the most of her 4G to catch up on Facebook, and I scuttled off to find the pub.
Blimey, Gosforth Hall is huge, with posh outdoor seating and a near full car park at 15:20 on a Friday.
Obviously a destination pub with all day trade, drawn by the gorgeous colours and history on every wall, I assumed.
There was no-one about; neither customers or staff.
But there was music being played at that irritatingly low level that Shazam can’t reach, and the door wasn’t actually locked, so I went to the side bar.
Service was professional but I sensed my half of Cross Bay (a competent 2.5) served in the inevitable beer festival glass wasn’t paying the bills. To make matters worse, my little bag of coins had a hole in it and I spilled a motley collection of silver over the ancient floor.
“I thought you were full with all those cars parked up !” I said, attempting conversation.
“It’s the school run“. My attempt at conversation failed miserably, the Landlady went off to do something else, and I couldn’t even guess how she felt about the mums and dads using their facilities.
There’s little worse than being on your own in a pub, and this was the fourth in a row on a sunny Friday where I’d be the sole customer. I attempted to say “Thanks” when I returned the glass, but no-one was about.
Perhaps it’s me.