August 2026. Frome.
Finally, Frome finshed.
The mile back to the station from the Royal Oak has the odd closed pub,
but overall there’s a healthy mix of pubs left,
and our last one firmly in the “smart family pub” camp.
A rambling place,
with perhaps the highest age range of the day (excluding our dozen casketeers).
And one of the most exciting beer ranges, for folk who like “exciting” beer,
so when the young lady in front ordered a pint of the Hop Union peach pale in dimples jug (ugh) I followed her lead. I’m sure the Pauls would have loved it as much as I did (VERY GOOD).
Quite what Messrs Mudge and Bailey would have made of the room we’d commandeered I can only guess,
but the play room designated for Little Tikes had perfect surfaces for perching pint glasses, dimpled or straight.
“Grab a bean bag” says Shawn, while Mick unfortunately records the moment for posterity.
Who’d have guessed a group of twelve pub crawlers would spend more time discussing bean bags and toy kitchens than Brexit and cider definitions ?
retiredmartin 
I was ready to discuss Brexit, but no one got the ball rolling.
Bean bags R Us.
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I would have been forced to drag a chair into that bean bag room. There’s no way I could get out of one of those, what with my gammy knee (that I don’t like to talk about).
I’m sure the peach stuff was as good as you say it was but I’d have been intrigued by the “modern best bitter”.
Isn’t “tikes” supposed to be spelled “tykes”?
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