Ah, Stevenage, the Skelmersdale of the South.
Actually, it’s not that bad. There’s a few good estate pubs for a start. And the hospital where Mrs RM spent 48 hours in labour. But enough of that, for now.
We walked the mile from the Beefeater into the Old Town, the first Stevenage tourists since it won Floral Town (large) (Herts) 1988.
I hardly remembered it from 20 years ago when we moved from Hitchin, and certainly hardly recognised it. The New Town is hard to love, but the Old Town was a delight.
Mrs RM scowled at the library; I thought Gardies (?) looked wonderful. Whatever it is.
In 1992 I spent my stag night, perhaps the most innocent stag night since 1872, at a curry house in Stevenage. It might have been this one. I forget.
Mrs RM was sceptical about the qualities of the new Guide craft bar tucked down a side street,
but the Broken Seal was an unexpected joy. Mostly.
As cutting-edge as anything in Sheffield or Waterbeach, high stools, ambient music and one of those electronic beer display boards we all love. All it lacked was someone to serve us.
“Go and knock on the door on the left” said the helpful customer. I knocked on the right.
The overworked chap was probably adding the wort or whatever folk do in brewery taps, but he obviously heard Mrs RM moaning about lack of beer even if he missed my feeble knock.
I bought a pint of the cask Citra (perfect temperature, 3.5) and two halves of Six Hills keg and thought they were splendid.
Mrs RM was too concerned about falling off the stool to enjoy them, and I had pulled a muscle levering my lithe body onto the seat. I HATE high tables.
“The struggle with high bar stools is real” said Mrs RM, and I said I’d used that as the blog title.
But I forgot, didn’t I ?