Day 6 of the Channel Islands (“Chis”) chunter. Home day, the GBG chapter triumphantly completed.
Mrs RM just wanted to sleep, so I made her take a bus trip to the furthest extremity before our
mid-afternoon early evening flight to Manchester.
The pink line takes you past the German war tunnels, the maze, and about 6 million square miles of potato fields.
Sadly, the bus doesn’t quite reach Greve de Lecq, dumping us unceremoniously at Portinfer a mile short. A man shows off his collection of pigs.
Mrs RM is only persuaded to walk that last mile after a leisurely (aka service was slow) Bakewell tart and coffee in Cafe Ouen, whose owner entertains us with an argument about cheese with some walkers.
“Do you PROMISE this unlikely looking footpath leads directly to the beach” she asked.
Worth the trip, I thought. Opinions were divided.
My faulty memory of it was a smart converted watermill in the Brunning & Price mode with posh diners and decent beer.
Well, I misremembered, like famous people are wont to do. It’s cheery, unfussy and pretty unspoilt.
We found a bench seat and had a last pint of Liberation (badged as Wheel Ale, ha ha), tasting more 6X than ever. Cool, rich, foamy, 3.5.
A great revisit, and one I thought I wouldn’t get as What Pub tells me the pub closes on Tuesday (it doesn’t, I’ve told them).
And then stuff started to happen. The staff started bringing all the bottles out of the back and plonking them on the table next to us.
And then 10 minutes later the Landlord said “Sorry, you’d better go outside, we’ve got a leak“.
Now, the ideal time for a leak would be 10 minutes before BRAPA arrives for his tick, forcing the pub to close and stuff up his best-laid plans.
We can hope.