retiredmartin

February 2025. Misson. Notts.

Brace yourself for an actual new Beer Guide pub. I bet you’d forgotten what those were.

The White Horse in Misson is a real sod for the BRAPAs of the ticking world. Open from 6, tucked away in that weird bit of North Notts below Posh Doncaster and just west of that blob of dull, marshy Lincs (that doesn’t really narrow it down, does it ?).

It was pitch dark at opening, useless for arty shots of Misson’s undoubted tourist attractions, so here’s the highlight from the Wiki extract.

The village (713 souls) is eerily quiet, bar a succession of groans emanating from the White Horse.

Isn’t that orange light magical ?

Why the moans ? Has the John Smiths on cask just gone off. No, that was about 10 years ago. The male population is taking England’s defeat to the Irish in the egg chasing badly.

Rugby brings in the trade, if only for the month of February. So that TT Landlord should have been moving these last two hours,

and it is, a cool, chewy NBSS 3.5. I take the last table in the small dining area as the TV sport winds up. It’s an unspoilt village allrounder, with little passing trade unless you get really lost looking for Goole.

A chap in chef’s whites, possibly the Landlord, comes over and asks me how I am, which I like.

I splutter an answer which reveals I have a sore throat and am about to pass the plague on to the residents of Misson.

And then return to my packet of artisanal (and ambitiously priced) “Wild Duck” crisps.