Leaving the Red Lion, I didn’t expect Lambourn to be completely downhill (and thus for the return trip to be a climb). Oh, well, once in town it was a simple matter to find the George Hotel, an Arkells house at the market place. Inside this nondescript house I found the most marvelous bunch of bank-holiday-weekend drunkards you could hope for.
“You look hot.”
“Thanks, sir, but you’re really not my type.” After a suitable pause, “oh, yeah, it’s blistering outside, especially when you’ve just run from Baydon.”
“Well, at least it’s downhill. What’d you do that for?”
“I heard there was beer here.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of running?”
“I ran from the Red Lion to get to the George. Job done, as I see it.”
Brilliant bunch of folks and as the conversations went on (a good local has all the punters swarm a newby as they are so bored to death with the stories of each other), I got to suggest things such as marathoning (London and Snowdonia) and the Beerathon.
The Endless British Pub Crawl 
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