22nd October 2022.
I finally summoned the energy to leave the Premier Inn at Helston at 11:17 on the Saturday. In truth if I hadn’t arranged to meet my Sis in Falmouth I might have stayed a third night and started on the Doom Bar at the Beehive, about which What Pub has exceedingly little to stay.
Sis was staying in Cornwall till the next weekend, and I could have hung around but I felt like I’d been living in the South West this summer and I just wanted to go home.
But first, a half in a rare new entry in the University town (well, actually that’s Penryn, but let’s not quibble).
Actually, it was called the Mason’s Arms once, but I didn’t remember that either. Neither did Sis, who was busy pointing randomly at hand pumps when I arrived to find her sampling halves of Treens and something else crafty.
The beer was cool (i.e. probably keg), the staff lovely, the custom varied.
Folk our age, scarily, looking curiously at pump clips and seeking inspiration.
“Have you been to the garden upstairs ?”
I hadn’t, so I went and looked, but couldn’t find it, so Sis had to tut and come and find it for me.
It’s a gem.
From the rooftops, just like in the Blue Nile song, you can see 77 GBG pubs.
One of which was the Seven Stars. You know, the great pub with gentlefolk weirdness and Bass. I couldn’t go in, with a drive half way home that afternoon. And you think my life is easy.
Never mind. Sis bought me a Buddha bowl from the organic food stall on The Moor.
It was good. But it wasn’t Bass.