When the Black Death arrived in Britain at the Port of Weymouth in 1348, the Boot welcomed it in as it had done all new visitors for the previous two years. The current building only dates back 400 years, though, and it’s haunts are intact beyond the new build.
I was the troublemaker, today, as I ordered a pint of the Cumberland which barrel promptly blew at which point I settled on another ale which came up muddy. “That isn’t right. Just a tick!” said the landlord as he abandoned us to the basement. We were left with a possibly 70-year-old (albeit possibly younger than me) black-leather-clad woman drinking a TALL gin and tonic and swearing to all and yon who made eye contact then wandering off toward the ladies’. Taking her cue, I moved off to the gents.
The landlord, having sorted the barrels, pulled me samples of both the offending taps plus my original pint request. We spoke of our travels and settled in to wait out the rain that had been threatening for half an hour. We COULD have opted to take our pints to the picnic tables across the road, next to the booze-friendly neighbours: