Back to Chesham, for the first time since the Mad Squirrel Tap in 2016 when I produced this under-appreciated line;
“But when you have lost your Spoons drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of Middle England” – adapted from Hilaire Belloc
Chesham, home to some chaotic queueing for dwindling fuel supplies when we last drove though, is one of those towns that lost its Spoons a few years back and no amount of public protests or throwing statues of Tim Martin in Scottowes Pond.
The skies are blue, the pedestrianised High Street is deserted at lunchtime.
Some shops have closed early, some are taking a New Year break.
Thank goodness for pubs. You can ALWAYS rely on pubs to be open, can’t you ?
You get the black and white shot of Trekkers as it looks best that way. Ambitiously, there’s tables on the Market Place, but you’d need it to be about 15 degrees warmer to tempt Mrs RM outside.
In the last week the division between Pub Men and Beer Men has been evident, as an unnamed individual urged me to taste a succession of marginally different beers at one of those “festivals”.
Beer Men love places like Trekkers, taking over Home Counties market places with their beer mats on the wall, beer barrels on the ground, high tables and electronic beer boards that move on to the next page just as you’re trying to find Doom Bar on Page 1.
They’re not for me, but to be fair Trekkers turns out to be one of the busier GBG entries of my 4 days in The South, even if that’s only five other punters discussing sours. Lovely chatty barman, too.
“Have you tried the sour ?”
“In my mind, this is what I’m confused about. Have I just drunk too much sour ?”
“It’s more acidic than tart“
“Sour, sour, sour“
The token cask from Siren was just about OK (2.5). Shoulda had the sour.
Oh well, tick’s a tick. And I’m all bucked up, once more.