After a week in
Budapest spent saturated in the finest glasses of white wine 80p
could buy, Miss Chardonnay Sidekick was well and truly off the sauce.
So she kindly clocked
on for taxi duties to search out a good pub in the countryside.
For a couple of years
now I have been half-heartedly toying with the idea of walking the
73-mile Ribble Way, from it's source in the Yorkshire Dales, to the
Dolphin Inn, in Longton.
So in a bid to build a
little motivation to take on such a challenge, I thought the best
thing to do would be to visit the pub to check on the prize which
would await me at the end.
'Of course I know where
it is, don't worry about it', I proclaimed after a cursory glance at
a map.
.JPG)
We drove along
Liverpool Road into Longton where we came upon the Golden Ball and
having not seen Marsh Lane, I immediately abandoned my plan and
decided to stop here instead.
But turning to park at
the pub we found Marsh Lane and continued down the road.
We kept on going,
finding nothing resembling a pub and eventually came out a few
hundred yards from the Golden Ball.
So the Golden Ball it
was.
The sun made a rare
appearance for Bank Holiday Sunday and the front and back beer
gardens were packed with groups of drinkers basking in every one of
the luke-warm rays.
Inside the pub was
similarly packed with large groups who had come together for a good
few pints or a bite.
From the outside its
appearance suggests a traditional village pub and I was surprised at
how much modernisation had taken place within.
The main bar area was
wide and open-plan while there were a number of smaller rooms tucked
away, including one which had gone for a coffee shop look, with a
number of settees.
I wasn't too impressed
with my pint of Robinson's Blonde which seemed to taste a little
musty.
But then again my
beleaguered taste buds which are not so discerning at the best of
times, may well have been reeling after a week spent in the company
of Hungarian lager (real ale hasn't got that far yet).
I was however,
impressed with a patch of grass at the back of the car park because
it included one simple feature; goal posts.
As a child who spent
many a sunny evening playing in fields at the back of pubs, one cheap
little goal post set would have transformed a mundane bike ride to
the pub, into an afternoon of endless entertainment.
Cuppie, heads and
volleys, whack the football at my sisters, the possibilities would
have been endless.
 |
And though goalposts
would not technically be needed for the latter, it would have
provided a legitimacy for a painful strike in the event a formal
complaint was lodged with my parents.
'You've made Lyndsey
cry', my mum would say in a scolding tone.
'Ah but she was in
goal, that's what happens', I could cunningly reply.
'And anyway she's 24
now, she's old enough to decide if she doesn't want to go in goal'.
We left just as a band
was setting up and more people poured into the pub, exchanging a
hearty medley of handshakes and back-slaps.
'I think I found us a
popular little local there', I remarked to Miss Chardonnay Sidekick
as we headed back to Preston.
'Yeah only because you
got us lost immediately.
'How do you ever expect
to be able to tramp across the country?'
Pear Tree, Penwortham
Bitter Suite, Preston
You can follow me on Twitter @RobinsonBee
No comments:
Post a Comment