We were sitting outside a pub last night. Let me say that again: we were sitting outside a pub. For no reason other than the fact that we both like a glass or two of real ale, we endured the dubious lack of pleasure of letting the train take part of the strain to Temple Meads, followed by a short walk to the Cornubia.
Just for a change, the timetable was in tatters. Every other train was delayed which meant the demented, disjointed computerised voices of men and women burbled constantly. “We…are…sorry…to…announce…that…” and so on, all with bizarre intonation, worse than a Michael Foot speech (ask your parents, kids, if they are old enough to remember Michael Foot, that is). The excuse for an hour long delay to the Plymouth train was “essential engineering work” which appeared to affect just the one train coming from the north. Anyway, I digress. More about trains later.
Ah, the Cornubia. What a pub this is. There were something like half a dozen “real ales” and seemingly as many ciders. None of your John Smiths “smoove” or Stella Cidre, here, thank you very much and thank go.. The pub was busy enough inside, but outside almost all the tables were taken. It was 15c for goodness sake, which is probably warmer than it was in August. It wasn’t just bearable to sit outside: it was downright pleasant. And the music, pleasantly loud enough to sing along with (sorry, fellow punters) and drum along with (and who would not want to drum along with?) Jeff Porcaro’s impossibly complicated “Rosanna Half Time Shuffle”. All accompanied by a gorgeous pint or two of stout, the name of which I forget now, I wonder why that is. Surprisingly, a rugby union game between South Africa and Argentina was on a big screen telly , but no one was watching. It was too nice outside.
As locations go, the Cornubia is as odd as it gets. A small, traditional boozer totally surrounded by some of the most disgusting modern architecture in the western world, much of which appears to stand empty. A closed down fire station, gradually falling to pieces, and a landscape as attractive as, say, Pripyat, the town next to Chernobyl. But it’s an oasis in an inner city wasteland, with a wildly eclectic group of people who like good beer, a good pub or in my case, both.
We then moved to the Knights Templar, a concrete Wetherspoons next to Temple Meads. There is actually such a thing as a good Wetherspoons – I am told there is a great one in Gloucester – and despite it’s drab appearance, it’s actually quite pleasant. It was very busy too, with at least three or four times as many outside the pub as there were in it. I have never seen anything like it. I wouldn’t describe the atmosphere as being akin to a hot August night because, this year, we didn’t have one, but you would never have guessed it was almost November. Here, I engaged in the quaffing of a cherry porter beer which was absolutely delicious and indeed almost half of my partner’s who was, by now, struggling. You have to help out, don’t you?
Because this is Bristol, the last trains home are at 22.00 and 22.11. On a Friday night, I ask you. Just wait until we have an arena situated by Temple Meads – and if George Ferguson stays on as mayor, then wait you will certainly will have to wait – and you have to leave just as the main act is coming on stage. The 22.00 was on time, at least until someone came over the tannoy to announce that a member of the train crew – as there are only two, I suggest it was the driver – wasn’t there so the train would be half an hour late. Thanks for that. If you want to get to Bristol Parkway, then rush to Platform 5 where you can catch the rattler. And what a rattler it was. Dirty, smelly – the toilets were little better – and of course packed, I did hope that there was no one from mainland Europe present. Our rail network is an embarrassment to everyone except the people who rake in millions of quid for operating it.
It was still warm when we got back and I mean warm. You do not expect 14c an hour short of midnight less than two months before Christmas. Whilst the temperature is a surprise, other things aren’t. You can still get a decent pint in Bristol – several in my case – and the run for profit railways are no more a public service than Sky TV. Despite the trains, despite the architectural destruction of the area near Temple Meads a great time was had by all, well me anyway.
For some reason, I am not quite at the top of my game this morning. Can’t think why that might be. Hic.
