retiredmartin

February 2025. Pulborough.

After duties to parents were fulfilled in Kent, and a solemn promise there’d be a Chinese takeaway from Meows next time, we took the first motorway to the coast, just like Don McLean in ’73.

Blimey, it looks very green, doesn’t it ? I thought the South-East was a concrete jungle ? As soon as you get past Gatwick it’s glorious.

Except for the pub opening times. Our first (anonymous) target confidently predicting on Google and Facebook a welcome that the “CLOSED” sign on the door couldn’t deliver.

On to Pulborough, jewel of the A283, though it’s the A272 that’s meant to be magically scenic, isn’t it ?

On the very edge of the South Downs, Pulborough is the Gateway to Petworth, I guess,

but the isolated White Horse is a Proper Pub devoid of those “fork handle for hand pump” nonsense beloved of Butcombe (and our next pub).

Against my normal principles, I took a seat at the bar, it was that sort of pub where if you sat at a remote table you’d look stupid.

Proper Fullers hand pumps, tight beer range of Pride, Hophead and HSB. Fullers version of “Gales” was the undoubted star of our Chichester mini-break.

“What’s that like ?” says the Old Boy taking a pew to my left, before asking for a taster. “A pint’s a taster“. It’s gorgeously rich and fruity (NBSS 4), a good sub for ESB.

This prompts a cheery discussion with blokes on both sides about HSB, Horndean and Dark Star, before veering off to the popularity of Guinness and places you can buy the Nigerian version.

And then I realise….I am becoming a beer bore. Time to go the wrong way to the Gents (“THAT way, mate”), and scarper before I embarrass myself by mentioning the pr******ce word.