retiredmartin

August 2026. Bath.

I arrived back at Isambard’s (quite  good) statue with 5 minutes to spare, and half an hour later was clambering the Paragon steps on the edge of central Bath.

You must know this one.

A symphony in brown dark red,

where Stafford Paul awaited with the sacred jug of flat Bass.

I’d put my Bath Star t-shirt on before entering the room, some traditions must be observed, and sipped.

Yes, soft as ever, completely different from the tight or floppy headed Bass of the Midlands, never mind the bankers of Stockton. If you’ve never had Bass from the jug you’ve never had Bass.

Just to prove I’m always honest about beer quality, I’m scoring it a 4 instead of a 5 this time.

If you need a head, you’ll get it when your jug is refilled (only 3 pints, we’re not completely mad).

Jon, who’d be leading us on the “curated pub exploration” (ugh) of Frome the next day, joined us for a discussion of tactics for herding a pack of pubgoers around town.

One of these days I’ll come in the Star, sit on that bench, and drink Bellringer, the actual house beer.

But not any day soon.