retiredmartin

September 2024. Mosborough. Sheffield.

Life is settling down a bit in Waterbeach now, though the arrival of some boisterous visitors in a week’s time may change that, and I might even be able to contemplate some travel outside the Sheffield-Cambridge-Tunbridge Wells corridor soon.

But on Saturday, arriving back in Sheffield at noon, I just needed to get out and walk. Anywhere would do, as long as it led somewhere new. I’m not sure what psychological condition I have, but it’s the opposite of the one that makes fold scared to leave home.

I got on the Supertram (£4 all day ticket) at the foot of Primrose View and stayed there, almost to the end of the line.

But if you stay on too long you end up at Crystal Peaks shopping centre, a grim place with one of every chain pub, so jumped off at Birley Moor to take a picture of a cobweb.

I think that’s an hibiscus plant, but being a son of a market gardener/florist hasn’t prepared me for such exotica.

Now, this is new territory;

1.2 miles south into Mosborough, 1.2 miles during which a young chap walking a dog attempted to overtake me.

And FAILED to so do ! I may have an appalling diet at times and recently failed to maintain my 15,000 steps a day routine during care visits to Cambridge, but NO-ONE outwalks Retired Martin.

Not when there’s a visitable pub with a good value lunch menu and I’ve skipped breakfast (accidental fasting).

Despite offering “crispy spiced cauliflower” and a beer festival the British Oak doesn’t grace the Beer Guide, perhaps it never will (as Don McLean sang), but it’s a True North pub so you can expect a certain standard of pub even if the cask isn’t shifting.

AND there’s a tree named after the pub.

I can’t tell my trees, but I can tell a wedding, and as I approach there’s a rush of blokes with beards and waistcoats and ladies with high heels they’ll regret later towards a giant marquee in the garden.

Inside, all is calm.

A cheery modern soundtrack, with Say She She looking like they might be heading to the wedding outside (it’s 30 years since anyone invited us to a wedding, with good reason, so I’ve no idea what folk wear).

I stand with lunchtime menu in hand, dithering between Bradfield, Milestone or Landlord (do True North actually brew anymore ?),

only to be told by the nice lady at the bar,

“Sorry, no food, we’ve a big wedding on”.

So I relied on the 235 calories in a deeply adequate Tim Taylor (NBSS 3) to fill the gap, and then watched in horror as the young couple opposite had Babette’s Feast brought out to them. They clearly beat whatever last orders was in place. Nothing on Facebook to warn me, obviously.

So please, folks, DON’T have your wedding in a pub when a visiting pub blogger needs feeding.