retiredmartin

July 2026. Whitchurch (Shropshire).

OK, they’re not all “wonders“, but illiteration innit ?

Whitchurch (Salop, there’s loads of them. See also : Newport) is a pretty little town, overlooked by those on the way down to bigger hitters like Shrewsbury and Ludlow and Cwmbran.

Famous for clocks, I later learn.

The half mile from station to town is packed with pets and funeral parlours and grand houses,

but not many pubs till you get to the gorgeous Wheatsheaf, or possibly Wheat Sheaf.

Just slightly outside my budget,

though a room with Border biscuit appeals, and I’m sure Mrs RM could claim it against expenses as her travel blog goes upmarket.

A newbie to the Guide, and a proper gem of an all-rounder.

Workers having a “break-out” session, gentlefolk diners, Old Boys (oh, increasingly that’s me).

The pump you couldn’t see was the Session IPA from Magic Dragon of Wrecsam, and it’s perfectly presented first out the pumps, if a little bit too Citra (not Mick).

The landlord is cheery and chatty; we try to guess the date of the Queen deep cut and both fail,

it’s an exemplar of a small hotel bar.

The chap in one group (it’s all groups apart from Billy No Mates here) asks for a Lemon Dream, which sends the landlord scuttling to change the barrel.

“Trust YOU to have something that needs the barrel changing !“.

Real ale drinkers get the brunt of this ribbing; you never see the barrel of Madri changed, do you ?