The last post featured a Berkshire gastropub mercifully free of scatter cushions.
No such relief in my final Berks tick, the eponymous Great Shefford, but oddly I’m a fan of clutter and chintz as long as there’s life.
Anywhere selling dog ice cream for £3.50 is bound to have life, even if a rather different species to the Swindon Spoons.
And despite appearances, the Shefford was ticking over quite nicely at the Golden Hour of 16:00.
As you can see from the swivel chairs (will they never learn ?), you’re in the Valley of the Racehorse now, though there’s no horse ice cream I note, which is blatant discrimination.
What an oddly non local selection of beers.
Not that I care, of course, but if Good Old Boy can’t get on the bar here what chance does it have.
Still, it’s a great welcome and I’m cheered up by the thought of being able to write “The Pride is drinking well” as I pick the seat against the wall and wait for gentlefolk to arrive.
And it does drink well, just about (NBSS 3), and I almost pop back to the bar for scratchings before thinking I’ll never get back up on my seat if I get down.
I always feel out of place in upmarket pubs like the Shefford, which are always some of the most pleasant.
No beer bars, but bare lights, so lose/win I guess.
And that’s your lot for Berkshire for 21, but GBG22 will be in my possession before you know it, and who knows what joys that will bring (actually I do but yknow, embargo and all that).