retiredmartin

March 2024. Laxton. Goole.

Some tickers have, I read, been driven to Laxton in the beguiling wilderness east of Goole.

That’s denying yourself the true magic of the Blacksmiths Arms, approached on foot through a village replete with mystical farmyard smells and twitching curtains.

The one problem with arrival by train is that the pub opens at 5, and the train leaves at 5.20. Appalling scheduling,  Northern.

5pm village openers can fill up surprisingly quickly, particularly when they open early.

It’s a place I’ll describe as “charming and unfussy“, more local than destination pub I reckon, as I’m clearly the only non-local.

Wold Top beers, like in Brigg, and Leeds supporters, like in Goole.

When the locals sit round the bar I go for the fire, just in case I end up arguing about CAMRA issues, missing the last train, and ending up sleeping in a ditch.

Great fire, solid but unspectacular Gold (NBSS 3)

solid but scarily raspy Chris Rea (‘ees from Middlesbrough you know).

Chris Rea wasn’t putting off the local children, in and out like vapers at the Etihad.

I love that; children belong in pubs.

The food seemed centred on pies. Pies I couldn’t hang around to try.

Back at Saltmarshe Station, I stuck my thumb out and waved manically for the request train to stop. I swear it nearly didn’t.