By my reckoning the earliest you could have had a new GBG tick in 2019 was at the Sandpiper, Paisley/Glasgow Airport, mere miles from the Pubmeister’s moth collection. If I could have been there for the 5am opening, I would have been. Perhaps I will, someday. Instead, It Begins In Lincolnshire, which sounds like… Continue reading NEW YEAR, SAME LINCOLNSHIRE
I feel a bit guilty about the lack of a report on St Andrews Brehouse, my new Norwich tick last week. Sadly my phone camera had only just recharged enough to bring you one shot from that “Fine City”. And it ain’t from the GBG pub. St Andrews is part of the burgeoning City… Continue reading “OLD”
A welcome return for Mrs RM in today’s post. Yes they sent her back first class from the Rifle Drum in Northampton. Also a return for pies, and our beloved campervan, which is about to get its big trip out. You’ll know who or what you’ve missed most. It must be more than a decade… Continue reading UP BRANDON CREEK WITHOUT A (BEER) PADDLE
Mrs RM has started an assignment flitting between Northampton Council (yes, THAT one) and a Cambridge office. If only there was even a 3rd World standard road between the two it’d be bearable. Still, she gets to pop in the Rifle Drum when she stays over, so life’s not all bad. I picked her up… Continue reading ADNAMS MURK STORMS THE CAMBRIDGE CASK CASTLE
It’s a well-known fact that Americans only like 3 types of music; Pure Prairie League, Dylan, and early ’80s post-punk. Mark Crilley will get the title reference. We headed for Tower Bridge aimlessly, debating whether Robert P. McCulloch would have been better buying the Royal Oak to rebuild under the (ahem) Arizona Sky than the… Continue reading TOWER OF LONDON
I can’t say I’m surprised how basic the Portland pubs are; neighbouring Weymouth is also a haven for lovers of unreconstructed boozers. Those in Portland seem to rotate their Guide places, so we get a second GBG newbie, and folk saying “Why didn’t you go in the Royal/Britannia/Add Your Choice ?”. Everyone must be… Continue reading OUR FORTUNES SWELL IN FORTUNESWELL
Sorry, Rupert, No classic poetry is safe when I need a blog title. Having reported from the area in Lincolnshire where national treasure Jeffrey Archer was incarcerated in 2001, here’s his current, rather more attractive abode. That’s Rupert Brooke in the courtyard (see here). All proper Cambridgians make the walk out from Newnham to Grantchester… Continue reading STANDS OPEN THE BLUE BALL, AT TEN TO THREE ?