September 2026. Huntingdon.
It hardly mattered as I was about to drive Mrs RM home from Huntingdon station, but the stagnation of the pub scene (ugh) in what you’d assume to be an affluent Cambridgeshire market town is quite something.
First appearances can be deceptive.
Entry into town over the Great Ouse takes you past the ivy-clad Bridge Hotel,
the “Choosin’ Texas” of Hunts Guide entries with an almost unbroken run due to a range of Adnams and some poorly reviewed microbrews.
The only other GBG regular is the market place Falcon,
a basic boozer of the Olde Vic variety, with bargain Potbelly.
That would have been my Hobson’s choice in town, but since I’m a) hungry and b) driving it’s Spoons.
The Sandford opened to great fanfare a decade ago, but on Wednesday afternoon it’s virtually empty, a rarity in the Wetherspoons estate.
That’s not because Hunts folk are too posh for Tim’s pubs, they just don’t eat and drink out much.
Yes, predictably, I go Korean chicken and German non-alcoholic wheat beer. Has anyone ever gone to Octoberfest and drunk low alcoholic lagers ?
Back in the market square there’s a huge police presence; possibly someone forgot to leave a donation in the Cromwell museum.
It’s not a scary town, bar the many schoolchildren whizzing past on bikes, but it’s not a place where the pubs draw you in,
and if there were ever quaint back street locals they’re long gone.
retiredmartin 