il miglior fabbro

I was a tad delicate this morning after last night’s fact-finding mission. S and I sauntered into the epicentre of the metropolis known the world over as ‘Gloucester’ and attempted to discover somewhere different to imbibe an alcoholic beverage or two. Café Rene has become, over recent years, the default setting for a pint o’ ale or porter so we wondered if a distinctive and atmospheric alternative existed. After a swift ‘un in the Rene, we trotted to Bull Lane and supped a couple in the Poet’s Bar (pictured). I witnessed no poets in our midst, only a gaggle of gentlemen singing discordantly along to a D. Bowie compilation but my beer, a strongish Czech brew, proved tasty. I hadn’t swigged a snifter in The Fountain for years and we headed there next; it’s a decent pub and the garden was packed with an up market crowd who may have been to a Three Choirs gig at the cathedral. One fellow wore a boating blazer; there exists no excuse for that level of dandyism methinks. We ended our evening of research at the Dick Whittington where S waxed lyrical about his honey flavoured ale. The night was successful; I would return to all three of the ‘new’ establishments. To misquote Johnson: When a man is tired of Gloucester, he is tired of life.