retiredmartin

January 2024. Buckingham.

18:41 on a Saturday night, which sounds like The Cure but they were writing about Crawley, not Buckingham. The only vaguely edgy pub conversation was a barmaid in the Grand Junction telling of her dating disasters;

“There were only 3 things stopping us getting married. He moved to Scotland, got engaged to someone else, and was a complete t**t“.

Far too soon to head back to Alfie, Baa Baa and Charlie at the Travelodge, but I’d be pushing my luck getting Mrs RM to walk 3 miles to Maids Moreton, even in appropriate footwear.

I vaguely remembered one characterful little enclave on the edge of town, and hoped that was where our third GBG pub, the Mitre, resided.

The walk there took us past the chintzier part of town,

past tea shops,

and tailors.

and fallen trees.

And then we were in the pretty bit of town,

and the 17th century Mitre looked buzzing, despite Mrs RM’s reticence.

Well, what a pub. My vague memory was of a decent boozer with blokes in their 50s sitting on bar stalls drinking Courage, but in 2023 you have one of the widest social mixes I’ve seen in a traditional pub.

Flagstone floors, scrabble boards, canine friends, toddlers with crisps.

A joyful place, and as Arsenal completed their bottle job against the Scouse (TV football on quiet) it just seemed the perfect pub for everyone, especially after two lads invited us to take their table by the roaring fire as they headed home.

That pint is Elgoods Plum Porter, a rich 3.5 from an attractive range (this one below was from 22 December, which rings a bell).

A jolly soundtrack, too.

In fact, the only way the Mitre could have been better is if it had a clear warning about the low beams as you exit into the night.

Oh. And “Owww”.