My last night in Wales, and Duncan met Baa Baa Toure for the first time. It was emotional.
Haverfordwest is a great place to be emotional in (NGPTBEISS 3.5+).
Duncan, who’s just broke his blog silence by welcoming the new GBG, had done all the Guide pubs for 3,788 miles around, so it was a case of “Which pub has been surveyed in the last decade, appears to have a handpump, and doesn’t shut at 7.30 ?”.
And ISN’T a Conservative Club.
Actually, we started on home turf, our decent if ambitiously priced Mariner Hotel filling up at the new Golden Hour of 7pm with Doom Bar drinkers.
Writing up these posts from old notes nearly a quarter of a year after the event runs the risk of things that made sense at the time sounding dodgy now. Who is “Adam of Aberystwyth”? More pressingly, was “Barefoot German rogue on the sack” a seasonal or regular beer ?
We set off, me stopping every 30 seconds to record a site at which Wesley preached. I could tick those.
I then made Duncan walk a mile further south than I said it was to the Glen, a perfectly adequate suburban dining pub with, perhaps, more for children than tickers,
though the Double Dragon (or was it Barefoot German rogue on the sack) another solid 3. Good to see the good folk of Pembrokeshire dressing up to go out.
There then followed a convoluted zig zag route to the Belle Vue, which had locked the front door so Duncan had to phone them so we could gain entrance via a hidden back door or something.
After that effort you expect Sarah Hughes on gravity, or Doom Bar. It was Madri or nothing. I loved it.
Which left the Farmers, which I’d declared one of the ten best pubs in the world earlier that evening.
He loved it. They all chatted to us, they played Duncan’s 3rd favourite Abba track,
And as we left a bloke who’d drunk more than us stopped us at the door.
“Remember what ?”
“Remember you’re a Womble”
This is why we go to pubs, rather than drinking cans of sour pumpkin DIPA in our underpants.
Sadly, we’d forgotten that Spoons curries are garbage.