And so I left my pint of Great Heck Black Jesus and headed off to the bus stop, where the Number 41 to Preston was boarded and soon (well, later - all things are relative in Wyresdale) dropped me off at Garstang.
|Royal Oak, Garstang|
I woke up the following day, still with the taste of Robbie's yeast in my mouth. I decided to forget about Lancashire for day and travel to Southport.
|Imperial Hotel, Southport|
After waking up tired and thirsty from the unwisely-purchased Delirium Tremens, I decided to console myself with familiarity. Lancaster it was. So, off again up the A6 to the city of the one-way road. I ignored all the Thwaites pubs, as watching Wainwright dominate the world is getting depressing. Thankfully, there's a Hydes pub towards the railway station.
|Robert Gillow, Lancaster|
So, in the end, I ended up back at the local craft bar, drinking again Black Jesus. And as the comforting darkness of both the beer and rapidly impending intoxication seeped into my brain, I cogitated on what I learned from my adventures. For one thing, just because a pub is owned by a family brewery, it does not mean that it's necessarily a traditional pub. And a lot of Manchester regional brewed beer is not really to my taste. But the journey is always more important than the destination.
And Jeremy, when are you getting that Rhubarb Porter?