retiredmartin

August 2026. Bristol.

I’ll show my deep ignorance of suburban Bristol now and admit I don’t really know the difference between Clifton Village and Clifton proper, about 50p on a pint I guessed.

Yes, there are buses I could have taken, but then I’d have missed the closed zoo, Clifton Down looking like a scorched savanna where you can imagine those rhinos and zebras roaming,

and a mosaic of an American airman.

I complete Bristol’s GBG enntries at the top of Whitleladies Road,

the Port of Call looking the sort of back street pub that should have been in the Guide for decades.

I’m never turning down a cool, chewy Otter* (VERY GOOD) in the west country, even in the ubiquitous Landlord glass.

The trade is in the the garden, where old mates are discussing probate and “solicitors getting their digits out” and then they all look up as the Ali G’s arrive.

They have no idea who Ali G is.

“You can take a photo if you want !” says the girl.

I already had.

Right, down the hill.

*_{£6.15 a pint, so actually 15p more than in the Village. But oddly I wasn’t surprised at £6.15 in Bristol. The barmaid gets an extra point for knowing they prefer cash.}