Archive for the ‘Worcestershire’ Tag
Started the day with a quest for an elusive post box, and ended it with a quick beer in the Postal Order….
Leaving the Pig and Drum with 30 minutes till my train was due, I was somewhat lost in the City and burned up 15 minutes wandering around just trying to find my way to the station. I spotted it and the Postal Order, a Wetherspoon’s in the refurbished old Worcester Telephone Exchange, and decided to have a quick bevvie on the way. I got the photo, above, from a traffic island and then as the crossing light changed I was swarmed with pensioners trying desperately to get in before me (and each other) and who then halted abruptly just inside to try, in vain, to find a table (the place was absolutely rammed with blue haired diners and drinkers).
I slipped around this crowd only to have two rogue granddads from my entrance plug spot me heading toward the bar. They broke into a pantomime of a run, something of a shuffle you might see on a 1960’s variety and sketch show mocking really old people. I walked on steadily (and at about the same pace as their would-be-frantic gate) and about halfway to the bar they both realised that they still had the rest of their party to deal with or, maybe, they forgot why they were dashing to the bar. Regardless, as they turned to implore their compatriots with confused expressions, I squeezed on through the bar crowd whilst getting felt up by grannies (I hope it was the grannies) and eventually was met across the bar by one of the many and helpful bar staff — no waiting despite the pilchard-tin crowding.
The building looks great outside, but nothing special within as far as I could tell. But, I wasn’t going back through the groping grannies to explore further.
I felt like I was finished with my run and there wasn’t enough time to do any ‘normal’ tourism so I turned off the run tracker and popped in the first pub that attracted me. The Pig and Drum threatened SKA and reggae on a window poster and had Pink Floyd blaring Comfortably Numb out the doors.. sold.
Inside I found a staggering array of cider pumps and ales in the sparse, warehouse-like room. The bar lady was friendly and efficient and the guys hanging out were a laugh. The music was what you might call classic rock but very good choices of it in my opinion (some Stones but from Let It Bleed, and unusual choices with regard to Van Morrison and the Clash, as well); the sound system was crisp and quite loud. It is the pub I wanted to have when I was 18 years old, and now at 52 it taunts me with the banner that I could have it if I really wanted:
After the E-VIII-R postbox, the Mug House was the other target of my day out in Worcester. 700 years ago, it was the alehouse for the Church of St John Baptist and the church cemetery has, in the interim, expanded around the joint. Today, it was rammed with customers dining and drinking and steaming up the place but I really could have spent weeks in the low ceilinged rooms I explored before escaping to the tables by the graveyard.
The landlady has the letters FBII after her name above the door, an honorary that may not be as prestigious as, say, Fellow of the Royal Society or Fellow of (insert science or engineering society of your choice, here), still serves to endorse the high standards of this busy house. Oh, and if you’re lucky the winner of the 2014 Grand National may join you for a drink (but may not get his round in, with those unwieldy hooves).
[The Chippy Challenge: to eat more fish and chips in 2014; see original post for details.]
Fish: cod
Sides: none
Evaluation: Stunning. Sure, I was hungry mid-run and the damp weather enhances the flavours but I think this is one of the finer pieces of fish I’ve shoved down my gullet this year. Just around the corner from a rare Edward VIII postbox and a short journey to the Alma (a very friendly pub), this qualifies northern Worcester as an ideal tourist destination.
Days since last: 1 (Pinehurst Fisheries, Swindon)
Map link.
Monthly consolidations/compilations: January
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Right. So, this was the thing I came to Worcester for, the Holy Grail to post box enthusiasts — an Edward VIII postbox, one of only 161 left nationwide. I was deathly ill the day before the Isle of Wight Marathon so the run I did to loosen up ruined me with regard to seeking out the one in Sandown a few miles from my hotel.
So, that’s the last one. Sigh. I’ve really enjoyed the postbox search; what next…what next?
I looked at my maps on the train and reckoned I would find where I was going easily enough without help of GPS or a compass or even the position of the sun (obscured as it was behind the clouds that rolled in as the train rolled north to Worcester). This is the sort of running I tend to do: fearless of getting lost or, more to the point, so prepared to get lost and find something new or unexpected that getting lost has become the norm, a welcome companion as the countryside and towns are explored.
So it was that I found the Alma which I knew from planning this trip last week was out of the planned way. However, I had already used my willpower running past a seemingly endless linear array of fine looking boozers and the stop to refer to the map forced my capitulation.
Several pumps called me as I reached the bar but I’ve been on a jag for porters, stouts, and milds lately and the Banks’ (apostrophe catastrophe notwithstanding) Mild got the call. The half dozen old guys (that had gone silent at the American accent emanating from this sweaty bloke) at the bar seemed to approve and went back to their conversation about jackasses that spend too much on fine wines. I wandered about for a minute or two admiring the Christmas décor and the pub carpet pattern similar to our dining room, then settled in with the ancients…the other, even more ancient ancients if I am being perfectly honest.
An almost endless stream of dudes with their young sons (in football kit) came through for pints and then disappeared off to my right (I was in the front window facing the bar). Perhaps to the garden, perhaps another room. Everyone there was on friendly terms and even I felt at home before my glass was half done. Everyone wished me well on the day without ever asking once about what the day entailed. Spectacular.
A postbox, chippy,
Seven hundred year old pub,
A run and some beer.
Name: Cameron’s Gold Bullion
Type: golden ale
Venue: Mug House, Claines
Review/notes: With Jackie working I had Saturday free so I chose a run location within 2 hours transport of the house and went for some tourism. Worcester is a Cathedral city and by all endorsements it has one of the finer Cathedrals going. There’s also a bit of Sir Edward Elgar and English Civil War tourism to do and the town is absolutely lovely set in the Malverns on the banks of the River Severn and with the Worcester and Birmingham Canal cutting through it (which is both navigable and has a tow path both hike- and run-able). Further notes on the trek are up on the blog or coming soon, but for the sake of this as the 2014-15 Holiday Run Streak entry let me note that there was an accidental detour to a fine local pub, a stop at a rare postbox, a snack from an ideal chippy, this stop at an ancient ale house, some mud and muck on the way to the canal, a grand little music pub, and a quick pint at a pensioners’ fly trap near the station.
On my run, today, I had a mild, a strong cider, and a lager but the stand out beverage was this Cameron’s golden ale, sipped on a bench in the cemetery grounds in the cool (but by no means cold), damp air of this perfect late fall day.
[DT =Daily Tipple, explained in DT #000 here]
Monthly consolidations/compilations: January
February
March
April
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June
July
August
September
October
You can’t find the village sign for Bell End anymore (it is probably a prize to steal, much like the sign outside Fucking, Austria because of the rude, if only colloquially British, meaning of Bell End), and the local pub lists its address as Bellbroughton but I spotted the village on the map as I planned our holiday journey to Shropshire and by god I was going to go there and have a pint.
However, we passed through too early on the way out to Ironbridge and it was really just my bad sense of direction and the fact that none of the places to eat in Stourbridge were either palatable or serving yet that resulted in us pulling off the road at the Bell Inn on our way back.
The proprietor was a fairly snotty character, displaying the arrogance of someone running a much finer restaurant. I walked over to survey the wine display and he tried to hurry us through and when I quickly just asked for a cabernet he held out two bottles for me to choose from; I started to ask what was the difference in price (as we had ordered some typical bar food–a lamb burger and some fish–and quality really didn’t make much difference) but only got so far as “what is the difference…” when he cut me off and condescendingly read me the names of the wineries off the labels. “…In price,” I finished as soon as he stopped. Both were reasonable so we took the Chilean one.
Still-and-all, the food turned out to be surprisingly good. But, with nothing else decent for miles around, this place probably has a built in profit. Don’t go out of your way unless you want to meet the bell end of Bell End.
The Endless British Pub Crawl 