retiredmartin

May 2026. Blyth. Nottinghamshire.

Off on our latest trip south to see Dad and source blog material from Transylvania. Sis gave me a book of lunch stops off the motorways a while ago, most of them at garden centres and alpaca farms. I missed the turn for the alpacas.

A man cannot live on Greggs macaroni cheese and KFC alone, so we stopped early, at Blyth.

No ! Not that Blyth, the one in Northumbria where I celebrated the end of the first lockdown.

This is the prosperous looking Nottinghamshire village of 1,265 souls, the A1(M) service station, 4 pubs, 4 bridalwear shops and an Indian restaurant.

The Blyth where in 1995 Mum told off a smoker for the crime of smoking, 12 years before the ban.

Oddly, the White Swan wasn’t serving lunches on Friday, so the GBG Red Hart gets our trade. At the age of about 10 Matt made us go in a pub rather than a McDonalds for tea as he wanted “proper food“, a precociousness that stuck in the memory bank.

I forgot to take a pic from the road, so here’s the mirror.

The tap room is basic,

and celebrates a stellar run of Guide entries.

But the trade is an unfussy lounge where the gentlefolk congregate for Phil Collins (“One more night”, knew you’d ask), lasagne and Pie of the Day.

Always go for pie of the day, folks, and if there’s a “Managers special” you must pick that one. I seem to have taken a photo of Mrs RM’s calves liver, oddly.

On the adequate side of very good, I’d say. CAMRA would say “stop for another one, if you haven’t had one already“. Two ladies opposite us looked like they could have eaten two mains and the pudding too.

“Where ARE you ?” bellows someone to the bloke finishing his second pint of Ossett Blonde (cool, tasty, 3.5),

“I’m finishing my pint of beer in the pub” he bellows back. Hope it wasn’t his boss.