Running up on the Anchor and Hope from the Black Horse I apologised to the guy having a smoke in the doorway: “it’s not you, but the venue.” “It’s never me, mate. I’m not that famous.” Funny, and I hope there’s a better story to that than this one I relate to you now.
I had a Black Rat Cider, always good and surprisingly orange in hue (as the birthday boy’s picture beneath the legs of Elvis ’68 attests). They had a variety of interesting ales on tap, too, and a nature programme on giant predators (an eighteen ton shark featured as we spoke about the relatively non-traditional nature of pubs closer to the town centre).
The pub dog, just a puppy, snoozed nearby and I reckoned wouldn’t be a problem if anyone wanted to sneak in and boost the collection of miniature booze (these ALWAYS make for the most delightfully miserable hangover).