retiredmartin

February 2025. Felpham. Bognor Regis.

We’d headed down midweek to meet Joan and US Dave, two folk who could temporarily convince persuade you there are pockets of near sanity in America.

By coincidence, we’d pick a similar self-catering style apartment south of Chichester, though our Boat House looks from the map as if it’s sited on sewerage works (it’s actually nurseries).

Runcton, which I’d never heard of before, is a short bus trip into Bognor Regis, so named because of the affection for the town of a former regent. Few people are aware of the love that King Charles has for Skelmersdale, a love that dare not speak its name.

Bognor ain’t much, but just east of the Butlins where I once suffered a week of holiday hell relieved only by a trip to see Southern League football, lies posh (ish) Felpham.

I can’t believe it; I was here just 18 months ago ticking the George, and now 100 yards away we get the Fox.

Oh noes ! Not the fork handles !

Dorset intruders suggest a Palmers house but it’s not, though the Copper seems the cask of choice (well, I saw one pulled while we were there).

In complete contrast to the earthy (and delightful) George, this is a dark wood-panelled all-rounder for women sharing a bottle of wine, gentlefolk diners, Old Boys on Moretti,

and whatever category Mrs RM fits in these days.

As you see, comfy enough, if you ignore the scatter cushion overload, and the Dorset Gold and Hepworth Old, which rhymes, were cool and chewy enough.

If it was your local, you’d be happy enough. Particularly it it was moved 2,000 miles to Minneapolis.