From Herefordshire (leaving one straggler in Luston to complete the county) we headed over the border into Gloucestershire. The border is the dashed line, painted by drunk Victorian workers in 1857. Why can’t we have straight county/state boundary lines like the Americans ?
I was last in Newent the week before lockdown, behaving like nothing was about to change in the King’s Arms. Van the Man may have had something to mumble about the impending lockdown, too.
Two years later I’m back doing taking photos of art scrawled on the historic beamed buildings.
You can deface any building you like with the words “I heart NHS“, of course, but what’s this ?
And more importantly, who’s THIS ?
“It’s the Queen !” says Mrs RM, but I’m unconvinced.
The Black Pig, our new Newent micro, awaits.
Except it’s NOT a micro, very much not.
It’s 16:42, the Golden Hour for pubs with tradesmen trade, and a dozen blokes are watching the racing.
And blocking Mrs RM’s regal entrance, which disgruntles her. I think Van wrote about it on Veedon Fleece.
I tell her to chill (not really, I fear for my life), and try to interpret the pumps, without success.
Thank goodness for Untppd ! (said no-one ever) as I discover the Black Dog is a house beer from Cotswold. It’s not very tasty, so I nick some orange murk from local craft brewer J. Schweppe.
Oddly, I love the place. It’s the comings and goings, the Guinness tat, the seating,
and a Specials menu featuring Cottage Pie, Faggots & Mash, and Bread & Butter Pudding.
Sadly, that was Wednesday’s menu. It was probably kale salad today.
I never found out.