February 2026. Hull.
Mrs RM was away in Rome with mystery chum, leaving me to fend for myself in Sheffield. Middle age (59 to 99) is supposed to see you settle down to home comforts, isn’t it ? But by Sunday lunchtime I was itching to get out.
Half an hour walk down to Sheffield Station, quick glance at the Departures board, see a train to Hull going in four minutes.
That’ll do. One new pub to tick in one of the greatest of UK cities.
I realise my phone is running a bit low on charge so I turn it off, just before an unannounced ticket inspection. The other passengers, probably from Beverley, scowl at me as my device takes all of 17 seconds to whir back into life and then I fumble for the Google Wallet. Of course, if your name is Paul then your ticket is a little piece of card so you’re fine.
You’d think I was personally holding up the train, so deep is the sigh of the guard, who then goes on the speaker with a long monologue about “having your tickets ready, your phone opened, your Justin Bieber videos WILL invalidate your ticket and should be deleted“. It’s funny but I take it all a bit personally, and when I joke about my Bieber collection a moment later he tells me he’ll get the train to make a special stop and drop me off at Thorne*.
You’re greeted at Hull Paragon by a statue of local legend BRAPA in 2057, heading for a 6am train in a valiant attempt to get to Sark’s 7th GBG entry to complete the Guide.
I mentioned needing half a dozen visits to get the feel for a town. I’ll have been to Hull a dozen times and never noticed Cecil.
Your first five minutes takes you past the giant GBG Spoons and the karaoke-led Moderation (“Crazy little thing called love” the victim). Seagulls squawk (?) their disapproval.
Queen Victoria Square is a marvellous plaza;
the City Hall staring at the first of the terrific museums.
Beverley Gate marks the start of Whitefriargate into the Old Town,
with its reminders of Hull’s cover band circuit,
and its proud collection of closed public toilets.
That really is a weird “i” in Pink Parrot.
Oh look, a white phone box to remind you you’re in a different country now.
And then we’re at the Land of Green Ginger, and one of the finest run of pubs anywhere.
So which one won’t I do ?
*You think I’m joking. I’m not.
retiredmartin 