I sat on the picnic table out front of the Hit or Miss to rest from the first leg of the run and await opening time, but one of the staff welcomed me into the warm (although I wouldn’t be served until the appointed hour). At precisely 12, Frank, a regular, and his highly excited terrier walked in and we both were set up with pints of Doom Bar. Frank banged on about cricket with the gregarious South African landlord…men’s and women’s internationals going on in Australia, at present. I moved away from the bar to read a Campaign for Real Ale newsletter and give them some room.
Somehow the conversation turned from whether the women’s team had won by 8 or 9 wickets to a murder suicide in the States. Then another, then three in one day. Always there with a Dylan quote I interjected, “and you ask why I don’t live there?”
Great pub in such a remote location.