retiredmartin

April 2025. Ely.

Blimey, out after 9pm, not been so close to last orders in ages.

“Where now ?” asks Mrs RM.

The two lovely young folk behind the bar at the Fountain had given their own unique perspective on the pubs of Ely, but despite warning us off the Kings Arms (Craft Union, scuzzy) we walked past that and back to the West End House.

Which is odd, as this is the place where Mrs RM was rebuked for stealing electricity last summer, and the cask hadn’t exactly sparked, either.

Sometimes, the worse the experience, the more determined I am to see if it can redeem itself.

Ely was deathly quiet that Saturday night, but laughter rang out from inside.

“Is this the jingoistic one ?” asks Mrs RM, recalling these flags;

well, sort of, but it didn’t stop her grabbing the last seat under the bombers.

Rarely have I seen a Cambridgeshire boozer so packed, and despite looking for evidence of birthdays, weddings and narrow cricket victories it appeared to simply be Ely’s entire population of Millennials, the folk who have bought houses in the city’s western suburb and for whom the West End House is their nearest boozer.

And it’s local Pub of the Year, too, because it is such a good all-rounder *.

Mrs RM is in her eavesdropping element, noting the Brompton bikers and rucksack men and “lefty shouty women”.

It suddenly feels like a great pub, even if the Tim Taylor/St Austell/Lacons (all in proper glasses) still seem a half point away from greatness.

We stayed for a couple, entranced by the sight of a pub being a pub, rather than a beer exhibition,

and thought our night was done.

Obviously, it wasn’t.

*I’ll also note the hardworking young staff unfailingly told us what the cost was before handing over the card reader, rarely the case these days.