retiredmartin

February 2026. Pavia.

I’d booked Trenitalia tickets to Pavia, reckoning a 7pm return* would be ideal to allow us to have a quick pint before a mad 20 minute dash for the train to Genoa (though I would caution against ever making Mrs RM dash for anything).

But as we stood outside the Black Bull at 18:02, with no lights or sign of life we began to realise that micropub hours aren’t restricted to Lancashire and Kent.

I mean, it’s the only thing resembling a pub in a town of 70,000, but even in Turin and Genoa we found that Italians don’t hit the pub till late. Compare that with opening times in Germany.

A local consulted his watch just as an apologetic young man made a dash for the door, explaining he’s been waiting for his partner to give birth,

which as excuses go beats “staff party“, “need time to rearrange the cushions” and “well, obviously we close for winter“.

I’ve no idea of the history of this Italian English styled pub, but it was here in 2014 when I made a couple of drunken memorable visits with the Pavia University staff,

once being forced to watch City concede two late goals to Madrid (not for the last time) on the TV.

An obssession with old (strong) British beer brands,

but I remember some interesting crafty keg from a decade ago, though the 6% Icarus from Dom Byron up the road was merely competent, and the lack of Untappd check-in tells a tale.

It’s a cosy bar for the after-work football crowd, most folk would think they were in a genuine Ye Olde Englishe pub, except you get compimentary crisps, table service and a soundtrack from Swedish metal band Ghost and the Ramones.

Shame we were a bit rushed by the time the drinks came out.

I made an attempt to wish the barman good luck with the impending birth; goodness knows how it came out in translation.

*_{Only later did we disover that there’s not really such a thing as an advance timed ticket and you can get on any train with the same rail company that day.}