More modest posts about modest little Scots boozers, and more proof that Fife is a corking chapter of the GBG as long as you care little about whether your beer is GBG 3+ or GBG 3- (3.25, Mike).

Actually, it’s the Kingdom of Fife, of course, just as it’s the Mess of Merseyside and the Destitution of Devon. Why the Kingdom ? Bill will know.

I arrive in Freuchie just in time to throw a primary school girl her football back during playtime before it rolls into the busy High Street (below).

It is one of the most meaningful moments of my very existence, particularly when the girl catches my return lob, guaranteeing me a place in the netball team next season.

A man sitting in a chair outside the church eyes me suspiciously, and I confess I always feel slightly nervous walking by schools on the way to pubs.

I wave on my way to the Albert, a pub that says “Warning” on the outside,

but welcomes you with a simple floral display on the door.

Somehow there’s three Old Boys already in before me, which doesn’t seem right. One of them is the undertaker. How I know that, I couldn’t tell you.

A design classic, simple bench seating, stools that allow Mrs RM’s feet to touch the floor, a sense that nothing has changed since Archie Gemmill 1982 except the prices and Stewart releasing a blonde beer in honour of Rod.

Sitting in the corner with my tasty but not-quite-crisp Blonde (3), I never really feel part of the pub, but that’s more me never liking sitting at the bar, even if the locals are discussing Draught Bass, young American songstresses and crispy shredded beef (they weren’t).

BRAPA will love it.


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