I’m sure you think us pub tickers are all the best of mates, perhaps living in a big communal house in Maltby and sharing lifts and mascots.
Not at all. I dispute the questionable ticks of my fellow Pub Men (keg is NOT a tick) and grimace when I read of BRAPA beating me to pubs I ought to have done first.
So it was with the Bull in Berkhamsted, my penultimate Hertfordshire tick.
Berkz, as the kidz call it, isn’t a hotbed of GBG action, and is also a dreadful place to park as the high street is dug up (again). And the Bull’s own car park, down a tiny lane, looked a bit scary for a campervan,
So I was thrilled when Mrs RM suggested popping in Greggs at the petrol station yards from the pub. You’ll remember how successful that tactic was recently in Aviemore.
You’ll also have noted how quiet some of my pubs had been on this trip; no such problems here as my photo shows.
Actually, it was really busy. Plastic Man U fans in the conservatory, gentlefolk diners in the bar, where an antique jukebox defied me to put on a long Kangaroo Air Force Elevator track.
Covid regs on ancient beams, plastic guards at the bar, “contactless preferred“.
And a kindly greeter/Landlord who escorted me to a seat at the bar, all the other seating options being taken.
Sounds a bit rubbish, but my notes say “oddly good“. I liked the fact the Landlord actually tasted the Side Pocket for a Toad before pouring it, I enjoyed a cool, rich pint of Tring’s finest (3.5),
and I enjoyed swivelling around in my chair at the bar.
Ten tables seemed set for food, none of them in use at 13:30, and I wished for a bit more bants at the bar.
But on the way out, Watford fans talked earnestly about “being sucked into a relegation battle“, and all was well with the world, particularly when I returned to the campervan at exactly the same moment Mrs RM emerged from Greggs with a sausage roll. And not the vegan one, either.