A few miles downstream of Bridgnorth lies Hampton Loade, home to my final Salopian tick of GBG22.
Hampton Loade sounds like a posh bit of south Shropshire, doesn’t it, and I vaguely recall the station as a stop on the Thomas the Tank Engine steam train (32 guineas each way, I believe).
The route down from the B4455 is winding and narrow and scary, but the end of the road is rather magical.
Hampton Loade seems to consist entirely of a mobile home park and a campsite, so there’ll be plenty of custom for the Unicorn, no ? (No).
They’ve even found one of those of those retro tree houses for the kidz. Mrs RM said I couldn’t go on it.
This is a holiday camp style pub, nothing wrong with that. The Five (5) Miles From Anywhere up the River Cam from me did very well with that for years.
You can trust a pub with foam sweet dispensers, I always say.
Lunch must have just ended, which is a shame, as 2 hours after fish and chips I’m ready for bargain pheasant stew.
Have I ever told you how Mrs RM mixed up pheasant and peasants when my mother-in-law ran one over in Tunbridge Wells ?
Anyhow, this is the closest seat to the bar. There’s a lot going on here.
And at the bar.
Will I ever get tired of this “beers you’ve heard of” trend in the GBG ? No, never.
The Banks’s Bitter was cool and drinkable (NBSS 3), a chap across from us (the only other custom at 15:00) was drinking it, slowly. No idea about the one on the left, some sort of grapefruit DIPA from Burton, I guess.
Mrs RM returned from the Ladies.
“You MUST go and see the rudy dudies !” she said, and she was right, and I would have blamed her if I’d been caught.
I loved the Unicorn. Friendly, cheap, unfussy.
But some standards were still being maintained, at least.
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