And so it comes to this, a final tick in North Yorkshire in West Heslerton. Wherever that is.
Oh. It’s here, near Malton.
And, bless its little slightly upmarket heart, so it is. Don’t stop to count the scatter cushions, Mudgie.
I’ve no idea whose boots those were; I was just about the only customer.
The two chaps behind the bar are cheery and chatty, which is all you hope for to leave a warm White Rose glow (oh, I’m a Yorkie now too, aren’t I ?).
The gloriously cool and chewy dark mild from Half Moon (NBSS 4) is a bonus.
But I know my audience,
and folk don’t pop in from Nepal and Cambodia and the Dom Republic to read about beer. They want to see scratchings.
Unless they’re American. Then they want lacings.
Sadly, unless there’s some form regression therapy available in pubs locally, I’ll NEVER be able to tell Mark Crilley which classic tunes were being played, so let’s assume it was Elton John, shall we ?
Or Billy Ocean. It’s nearly always Billy Ocean.