Day 5 (still) of the Channel Island Hop-athon,
“Shall we walk up that hill to the Cock & Bull ? It’s an hour till check-in.”
I know when enough’s enough.
Back in St Helier a second time at 19:30, we found to our delight the French-tinged Norfolk Hotel was targeting the gentlefolk coach party market with dire warnings about incontinence fines and strict instructions about a joyless breakfast.
I did have one more GBG pub I wanted Mrs RM to see, a classic, but the lady was not for moving so I set off on my own.
Before I get to the pub marked on the map as “The Pet Cabin”, I was distracted by the Prince of Wales, St Helier’s market pub.
By law you must never walk past pub with light in the windows and an open door.
I’d been here in 1999, scoring the beer highly, and I doubt it’s changed since that famous year when a Manchester club scored two never-to-be-forgotten injury time goals.
The beer range hasn’t changed much, either. Very Sussex/Isle of Wight.
Friendly, gorgeous, and unfussy. And that’s just me.
The Prince of Wales is the equivalent of Manchester’s City Arms or Sheffield’s Bath Hotel. Bench seating, net curtains, cool beer, the Supremes and Albert Hammond on the radio, mostly unrepeatable pub banter.
A group of sweary ladies chatted clothes and boyfriends and the Jubilee (probably the 2012 one, I’m that far behind on the blog).
One lady phoned her mate.
“What ya doing Saturday ?”
“We’ve got fish and chips at the Prince of Wales. And a Jam tribute“.
“Fish and chips ! I’m in“.
Actually, they needed to rope in some more customers; it was a quiet Monday. An elderly couple whispered to each other, a noisy bloke at the bar the only other punter.
The Gales HSB was terrific; cool and foamy (NBSS 3.5).
AND the nice barperson accepted my Guernsey fiver. I didn’t fancy trying to get shot of that in Aberdeen.