The Myerscough, Samlesbury

We wandered peacefully along the beach, forming satisfying imprints on the crisp, wet sand freshly smoothed by the retreating tide.

The glimmering sun tickled the ocean and a gentle breeze urged us enticingly onwards.

'Right sack this caper, we need to get ourselves back to Lancashire and quickly.

'It's all very well us living it up here in Prestatyn but this is precious beer garden weather', I announced to Miss Chardonnay Sidekick whose face began to curl.

'But we're on the beach, it's a beautiful day and we're having a nice time'.

'Exactly, it's perfect', I replied reassuringly.

'Just think how nice the beer gardens will be today in all their glory'.

On the promise of a cool glass of Chardonnay in a sun-drenched beer garden, I somehow managed to negotiate our hasty exit from sunny Wales for a quick dash back to Lancashire.

But as we neared home the clouds began to roll in, becoming more threatening as we came closer to Preston.

'Not good', I thought to myself, 'There's going to be trouble here'.

So thinking on my feet I resolved to drive until I found a sunny break in the clouds and pull up at the nearest pub. Genius.

Preston was not looking great so I carried on down the A59 until Samlesbury where I found those glorious rays beaming down.

Quickly I pulled into The Myerscough and headed for the door.

It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when we got in and the place was packed out, without a single seat to be had. 

Each table was packed with families and groups of friends young and old who were either tucking into Sunday roasts or hungrily waiting for their meals to arrive.

I took my Robinson's Dizzy Blonde and followed Miss Chardonnay Sidekick out into the beer garden.

There we sat alone in the large, pleasant grassed garden, enjoying the 'sun' which was not offering us quite enough in the old temperature stakes to stop us from shivering ever so slightly.

'So this is pleasant isn't it?', I said. 'Nice little pub with a traditional feel to it, though I suspect it has been altered a fair bit inside'.

'Triffic', she replied.

I was about to make a joke about Rodney Trotter when a thick, dark cloud rolled over and seemed to settle itself just metres above our heads.

We looked up to see this great, angry mass appearing to strain like a dog on a poor diet.

'Is that hail I can feel?' said Miss Chardonnay Sidekick.

'Oh no I don't think so', I replied just as a deluge of ice bricks came crashing down on top of us, missing the rest of the garden, which remained bathed in sun.

We dived into the car just as the evil ice cloud clocked our movement and unleashed the rest of its freezing arsenal on the windscreen.

'Well that was a bit of fun, where do you fancy going next weekend?'