The "Cal-torpe" Arms,

Pub 90. The Calthorpe Arms, 25th August 2012.

The last time I came here it was wonderfully shabby. I like that. but now it's been spruced up - and thankfully they haven't ruined it, although it does look a bit like the decor has come on the advice of Sir Walter Scott. 
The photo above, by the way, is nicked off Google and shows it pre-tartan tarting up. The doorway incidentally is handy for loitering in while watching for your bus coming, which I was doing on my last visit.

The usual Young's fare on offer, reliable as ever. Although the eastern European barmaid caused some price confusion thus:

"Tree-tur."

[I took this to mean £3.10 and presented her with £3.20]

"Tree-tur please!"

"Yes, there's three tweny."

"No! Tree tur!!"

"How much?"

"Tree turrr!"

She meant three thirty. Three pounds and thirty pence please. "Tree tur"??? What does that mean? It certainly deosn't mean you should give me a look as if to suggest the confusion was all my fault and I am stupid.

There was a gang on regulars round the bar, and it was nice and quiet - the telly with the sound down. All jolly good. 

Then a bemused looking German tourist came in sat down and perused the menu before getting up to order the gammon, and sat down to eat it while engaging with his iPhone.

Then a few minutes later another bemused German tourist came in, sat down to peruse the menu before getting up to order a lasagne, and he sat down to eat it while reading his book. 

They didn't seem to know each other, so what an odd coindence I thought. And how annoying that now the pub stinks of fried food.

Grey area

Pub 89. The Yorkshire Grey, 25th August 2012

I only had time for a quickie in here, as as soon as I got to the bar I was told they were closing soon for a private party. This really annoys me when pubs do this. It's a public house! PUBLIC! Where's your function room? It was never allowed in the old days. Oh well. When I said no problems, I just want a swift half and the toilet they helpfully & eagerly pointed me in the direction of the toilet. I really had to convince them that I wanted a drink too. But the bar-staff were very nice all the same, although one of them spent the whole twenty minutes I was in there pounding some white powder in a large glass jar with a long metal implement like a medieval alchemist's apprentice. God knows what he was doing.

The beer was nice - although I can't remember what it was now. The one on the right in the photo, which I can't make out. The pub was very pleasant, a bit smaller than it looks on the outside though. Look out for the man on said Yorkshire Grey at the top of the building, very nice that.

Clerk is unwell

Pub 88. The Clerk & Well, 25th August 2012.

I don't really know what to say about this pub. It's awful. It's not rough or unpleasant or horrible or loud or dirty... it's just so dull and bland it's awful. Ok, so there's nothing about it to actually dislike but that's because there's nothing about it! Which makes it awful.

Completely devoid of any character. And a stupid feeble made up name too, I'd bet a pound to a penny that who-ever came up with has no notion of the actual clerk's well just down the road that gives the area its name.

The Deauchars IPA was not very nice, and bar was a bit itimidating so I didn't notice the EPA just a drip tray away. The few people in here were bar people, as opposed to pub people, if you get my drift. For example, two very trendily dressed young chaps, heavy with hair-gel and guffawing loudly came to the bar. One ordered a Kopperberg or whatever this week's hip cider is. The other carefully examined the pumps, walked up and the down the bar perusing each shiney silver tap, and then still had to ask "What lagers have you got?" and on hearing a run-down of their fizzy fare stopped at one, say Stella, and quickly piped with a "ooh - a Stella shandy please!". Please indeed.
It had been raining all day and I counted 3 men in knee lengths shorts and flip flops.

There's nothing really made me want to stay here at all, maybe if they were showing a footie match and there was no other pub within a country mile. The only thing that entertained me while I was hear was the Chinese takeaway next door was called "Kung Food". Haha. And the pub stunk of it.