retiredmartin

April 2024. Harpenden.

We left bucolic boring Bucks and headed into boring bucolic Beds via Woe-burn, and thence onto the Dunstable Northern Bypass, which probably deserves a blog of its own.

I’d have taken a night in the campervan at Leighton Buzzard, but the prospect of an hour’s walk back from town to Heath & Reach along a canal towpath seemed strangely unappealing to Mrs RM, so I parked up in a council car park in Harpenden, with a promise of a “nice” meal, a “nice” pub and a chance to view some “nice” houses,

all of which will set you back a million quid (333,333 pints of Sam Smiths OBB).

Yes, Harpenden’s commuter town (pop. 30,74) is so “nice” it managed to persuade Ordnance Survey to add those black dashed lines that designate a change of county to the map to ensure house prices weren’t deflated by association with Luton.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was here; apparently it was just before Covid when I opined that the Mad Squirrel wasn’t much in keeping with the rest of town, though the beer was fantastic.

“But retiredmartin it’s just what the Harp needed to lift our town out of its 3 pump mediocrity and give us a choice of 20 different beers flashing by on a colourful screen“ I wrote.

Well, it looks like Harpenden didn’t need 20 different beers flashing by on a colourful screen, as it closed, replaced by a place named after Luton Hoo with keg Doom Bar.

And our new Guide entry, down near Batford Springs and the Lea,

is the Marquis of Granby, which looks a lot like a lot of other pubs round here. You’d remember that Watney, Combe & Reid sign if you’d been before, surely ?

A gorgeous pub in a gorgeous location,

but who goes to the pub on a Sunday night in Harpenden ?

Quite a mix of folk, from the Spurs fans watching the big screen in the public,

to couples who’d decided they couldn’t face a Sunday evening of Countryfile, Flog It!, The Chase and Air Fryers.

We’d entered the public bar, but Mrs RM had taken umbrage at the dog hairs and discarded cap on the corner seat and gone off to look for something smarter while I ordered.

Gotta’ be Pride, hasn’t it ? You’re in London now.

“Your missus has gone that way” said a helpful Old Boy at the bar, and I tracked her down to the room with even more cushions and hops. Cosy and relaxing, despite that cushion overload.

She’d moved on to wine after doing the cask work in our first two pubs, and I feared for that mix of grain and grape later.

The Pride was drinking well, enough, cool rather than chewy (NBSS 3+),

but as Mrs RM read the Google reviews for all our potential curries I stumbled on this Untappd entry for the unsung hero on the bar;

Well. if John H. reckons the Doom Bar is a 5, who am I to argue ?

It WASN’T a five*. But it WAS a fiver. Perhaps that’s what confused him.

*More like a 3.5, which is good.