retiredmartin

My second GBG tick in Melton Mowbray, and a moment of pure joy south of the River Wreake.

Sluice valves, cricket on the green,

all very bucolic Midlands England, right down to the indoor bowls club housing this year’s surprise new Guide entry;

It wasn’t open, of course, the doors locked and no-one about despite a scattering of outside table. And to be honest Google Maps was screaming “It’s closed, you fool” as I completed the mile walk out of town. Why on earth would an indoor bowls club be open the weekend before the Heaventeenth of May ?

I sent them a Facebook message, just in case.

Oh, well, worth a try, and at least I won’t go wrong and walk to the outdoor Snooker Hall bar next time.

Then I saw a bell.

There is but one rule of bells as it applies to pub tickers.

ALWAYS RING THE BELL

I did, and a few seconds later a nice young lady emerged from a mysterious secret door.

And 10 minutes later I was drinking the nectar of the gods.

No, I really was. A bottle of Abbot decanted into a John Smiths glass never tasted so good.

Before I reached that point I’d been apologised to at least thrice.

“I’m sorry, the Greene King IPA has run out” – that’s OK.

“I’m sorry, should have offered you the John Smiths Smooth instead” – that’s OK.

“I’m sorry, the draught beer is back on from Tuesday” – that’s OK.

I’m not being funny, that bottled Abbot was nectar, you beer snobs.

Rarely have I met such lovely people.

Back In Melton, the town was dead. I’d missed the Olde Pork Pie,

and the Boat. And the Anne of Cleeves was an Everards Tiger too far.

But Melton Mowbray will call me back soon enough, and I promise I’ll take Mrs RM indoor bowling (live YouTube coverage for Patronised readers only).