retiredmartin

April 2026. Guisborough. North Yorkshire.

This next “pub” had been irritating me for a year or more with its Friday and Saturday 3pm-7pm hours, but you take the rough with the smooth as a GBG ticker, and Guisborough is a nice little saunter in the sun.

The priory grounds are free to wander, and picnic, and flirt, which is what the 17 year olds are doing in their lunch hour, so perhaps there’s hope for our insipid fertility rate after all.

Actually, everyone in Guisborough is either seventeen or seventy, though even the gardens can’t attact the oldies.

They’re all vertically queueing in the newish Spoons, leaving a vast unused bar counter and creating a 20 minute wait for drinks which disuaded me from a pre-emptive tick.

There’s a gracious high street in the North Yorks style, but Westgate lacks classic pubs, though the Craft Union has the ornate tiling.

Frankly, I should have walked up Roseberry Topping

but as the pedometer ticked around towards 30,000 I could feel the chafing, and wished I’d worn Mrs RM’s non-chafing pants as she’s suggested (pics available to Patronised readers).

So it’s straight to the industrial estate where the locals have beat me to early opening,

so at least I cab admire the Modrian artwork,

and ponder on how to score a homebrew stout that is rich and gorgeous, but served in a plastic glass.

Should a beer lose half a point for being served in the wrong vessel ? As the monks of Gisbrough Priory would have known, that would be an ecumenical matter.