retiredmartin

October 2023. Northallerton.

One more post from a successful raid on the North-East/Yorkshire sections of the GBG, with what felt like an overdue return to Northallerton after a three pub tickathon back in 2018.

Five (5) years ago I wrote of “a solid blue-rinse town, generally resting on its laurels by virtue of being better than Thirsk, which hasn’t been that hard“, and that’s still the best thing ever wrote about Northallerton.

It’s a workaday version of Skipton, lacking the tourists that a canal and fast A road bring, but full of useful shops and good humour.

It does quite well for a town of 16,832; I counted two dozen pubs or clubs on What Pub.

That green (C) near the Kingdom Hall isn’t a cask outlet for Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I thought I had two new ticks to do, but Origin was previously Tithe so we didn’t need to do that one.

Instead, Mrs RM decided I would be buying new shoes from the venerable Charles Clinkard (the pair I bought in Darlington having just died) after a half in the Fleece at the very end of the long High Street with Town Hall in the middle. I do as I’m told these days.

Back in 2018 I noted that the Fleece was handsome but had “too many A-boards”,

and perhaps it’s a tiny bit neater these days,

and was certainly a boisterous town pub with inevitable canine companions.

Half a dozen Old Boys seated at the bar blocking the pumps, which wouldn’t actually bother me if I knew they only sold Bitter, but only Sam Smiths afford that certainty, and asking for “Bitter” or “Pale” gets you nowhere in 2023.

Fortunately one Old Boy moved away to stand at the raging fire. “Don’t burn your bum” called his mate.

I chose the local one.

It was off. Really off. Even without tasting it the barman knew.

The Coors drinker looked at me sympathetically/smugly, another local pointed at the beer I should have had.

“Does the Coors ever go off ?” I asked.

“Oooh yes, it can go a little “eggy“ “. I was intrigued.

Meanwhile, at the fire, the barman was upping the heat.

Mrs RM was delighted, she hates a cold pub, and the Landlord was a foamy 3.

No idea what the fruit/vegetable is, but it wasn’t a scotch egg.

Press PLAY below now* to hear that fire crackle.

I was only saying in that last post how North Yorkshire is (blissfully) stuck in 1986 musically, and along come the Housemartins to prove my point.

It was cosy and jolly, and the toilet signs were superb.

And you can’t beat a literal pub sign, can you ?

*NOW !