The Number 43 from Kingswood (with me the only passenger) rumbled into Haymarket with my Premier Inn the backdrop.
No bargain chain hotels here, you have to cross the Severn for those, so I needed to get value from my mini-break by completing the Bristol ticks.
Back on foot as I head north to Westbury or Henleaze or whatever it’s called, the geography gets a bit wobbly round here.
At the end of the night I was delighted to see I’d racked up 36,603 steps and burnt off 1,223 calories,
almost a quarter of the calories added, I guess.
It wasn’t a great night for walking, and once you leave the art and colour of StokesCroft it gets a bill dull and suburban.
Which is the best thing I can say about the Westbury Park Tavern, a large open plan gastropub opposite Waitrose, so you know what to expect. More women than men, and no students. A recipe for success.
Flowers on the table, pashminas, Tribute, mini burgers.
Two pints of Butcombe get pulled while I wait, but despite that the Bitter is average.
Still, a suburban pubbed packed at 20:30 on a wet Thursday in March ? Great to see.
The walk to the Good Measure in what I think of as Clifton takes me past the gorgeous font of the Cambridge Arms, which seems to have acquired a Pride pump since my visit 22 years ago.
These days the Bristol Guide entries look more like this;
I liked the clean lines and brightness of the Good Measure, and with less determination to end the night with a Chinese takeaway (for research purposes only, obvs) I’d have had stayed for Mr Noodles here.
The High Plains was cool and clear and beautifully presented (NBSS 3.5) if a bit, er, plain.
Lovely thick glass though.
Right, time to go downhill.