retiredmartin

30th January 2023.

From the Stag & Hounds in Bristol’s Old Market I headed back over the river to make sure the thieving Bristolians hadn’t stolen Mrs RM’s car,

admire sunset against St Mary’s Redcliffe,

and then head on to the Golden Guinea via the scary underpass on loan from Newport.

I hadn’t noticed this intriguing bit of Bristol before, and it feels a bit like wandering Rotherhithe, your usual mix of of Tapas, Bump Rollerdiscos (?),

tower blocks,

townhouses,

and a couple of stately pubs.

You can judge a pub as soon as your feet step through the door and you walk to the bar* (which is why table service is an abomination).

Warm glow outside, warm pub inside, Morrissey is singing,

and there’s that gentle of hum of conversation from half a dozen tables at just gone 5pm.

Could be me, but beer ranges seem less adventurous in GBG pubs these days, which delights me.

The house beer is from St Austell, so using CAMRA’s regional definitions in GBG23 is virtually local.

Shame about the handled mug, which always imbues a certain watery edge to beer, but it’s a decent well-presented pint where the head is the star.

“Cosy” is the word, perhaps even civilised. Smart but comfy seating and the sort of place you’d linger, though I was starting to regret ticking in pints by now (“Wimp” says Si).

There’s the distinct sound of Russian being spoken on one table, and the rare smell of smoke on another, while the Google lady booms out directions to a place the chap would rather not know he’s headed next.

It’s all rather charming, particularly the loos;

But then a chap my age comes in with a younger man, possibly his son, and ruins it.

“Can I have a taster of that ?”

*Well, obviously you can’t, but that won’t stop me saying it.