My parents are getting a bit of help with daily tasks, which means they’ll be less pressure on me to fix my Dad’s remote control from Sheffield.
The lovely lady helping out is a family friend who recently had a holiday up in the North Yorkshire Moors. If there’s one thing Mum likes it’s me having conversations about remote places most folk have never heard of.
Like Thornton-le-Dale (aka Thornton Dale aka plain Thornton) between Pickering and Scarborough, which would look even lovelier if someone dumped all those cars in the Motor Museum I’ve never been in.
I was here in 2019 prompting many people to explain the meaning of “Rorty Crankle“.
Back then it was the New Inn pulling in the pulled pork pensioners,
now it’s the Buck across the road.
There’s 3,237 pubs called the Buck in North Yorkshire and I’m convinced I’ve been here before.
Still, I stand at the front door at 11:59 and admire the clarity of the Opening Times board.
Note the spot where someone has punched a hole in “*uesday” having turned up at noon based on Facebook promises.
A couple my age (grief, that’s old), join me at the door as the clock turns to 12:00.
“It should be open” says a pleasant but anxious man. Grief, even I’m not that impatient. (“you are” says Mrs RM).
They’re only here to book a table for later that night. I tell them the food in the New Inn is good, and they assume I’m a local.
At 12:02 I nip round the back to car park entrance, my two new best friends in hot pursuit. They’ve opened the access from the car park rather than the street, which tells you a lot.
I’ve missed Cask Ale Week, folks.
Sometimes I wish those were the only five beers, with Bass replacing Wainwright and a rotating fudge marshmallow DIPA sour replacing Tribute.
What a choice !
And you know I’m deadly serious. I have a half of Black Sheep, which is decent enough (NBSS 3).
The chap following me, like the runners in Forrest Gump, make a booking for 7:00 under the name of Edwardson (it wasn’t but I deleted my notes), and quite rightly have a beer and a G & T. The chap stares at the two pumps as if he’s looking at a Torrside Tap Takeover before following my lead.
It’s a decent all-rounder of a Moors pub.
No, no, NO !
I buy a postcard for 25p from the village stores to send to Waterbeach, which I would have done if I’d had a) a pen, b) a stamp, c) anything to say. It’s still in my bedside drawer in Sheffield.