In praise of the walk to the pub on a Sunday

There are five fields between my house and my favourite local pub. I could drink in my own village - four pubs, two of them decent enough - but instead I choose to hack across country.

Today the wind whipped over the Trent Valley so strong that my eyes start to hurt. Path margins were so muddied that it was hard to tell the dogshit from the horseshit. I couldn't be bothered to put proper boots on and after five minutes of sliding about on glutinous poo, I'm wondering why I bother.

Here's why:


A great pint of cask bitter. Banter with the landlord, a fellow Red Dog. Civil conversation with dog walkers and smokers - you do seem to meet a better class of person outside a pub on a Sunday lunch. To be sat an ex-Singer sewing machine table, drinking Whim Hartington Bitter (floral hopped with a toffee twist), watching the Twitterverse tweet by...

... and then enjoy the gale-blasted, shit-dodging walk back home again.