retiredmartin

April 2025. Ely.

“Have you been there ?” asks Mrs RM as we pass Ely’s top hotel on the walk down hill back to the campervan.

And I have to confess that I haven’t, but I really want to.

I’d popped my head in the Lamb a fortnight earlier on the search for the Abbot of Ely, been distraught at the sight of the ubiquitous Tim Taylor, and now realised I needed to get this “ticked” (not that it’s ever getting in the GBG).

It’s half ten, the evening diners long gone, with just a gaggle of hotel residents in what I presume is one of those Greene King Olde English Inns.

The most characterful bit is the ubiquitous lamb.

The flyers for the Phil Collins and Shostakovich tribute acts tell you all you need to know.

But at least there’s now Abbot, and a Neck Oil for Mrs RM, who’d persevered with cask long enough.

We plonk down next to a table of Geordies discussing Prince Andrew.

Besuited staff hover round asking if they can help and directing Mrs RM to the ladies, it’s all very genteel and I’d love to tell you the highly infused tap water was the highlight of the visit.

But it’s actually the Abbot, a cool, rich half (NBSS 4) that would get the Lamb in the Guide in Builth Wells. Which I discover with alarm is where the Geordies come from, as they discuss some sort of farming swap between the Welsh Wells and Wisbech.

Blimey, never judge a pub by its livery, folks.