There a trip over to Stroud recently. I could’ve blogged about this on t’other blog, but the love affair with Blogger was over some time ago. It was a trip to be of many firsts.
I got to have a bit of a nose around Moosh’s lovely little newish house before we hit the Farmers’ Market. I learnt it’s now unwise to mention laminate flooring in Moosh’s presence, specifically the laying of said material. The slightest mutter could lead to several minutes of deranged repetition of the words: “It’s not coming up! It’s not coming up!” Appropriate action in the event of you encountering this phenomenon is to back away and offer tea once the spitting and twitching has eased a little.
As a side note: The garage door should definitely be painted purple with silver strips, join the campaign!
Off we toddled to the Farmers’ Market, that’s incorrect, we drove there. Again, wrong! We were driven there, by the lovely A. Exiting the car with some relief - I thought travel sickness had left me for sunnier climes, but it appears not to be - we marched gently ascended the hill. Neither of us had any specific agenda for the market, just a general nosey around like we normally do. We meandered past the stalls, briefly looking at some and occasionally taking a greater interest in others. Moosh took such a fancy to some Vampire Relish (good with cheese in big sandwiches, apparently) on the garlic stall that she actually bought some, an extremely rare event at the Farmers’ Market for either of us.
Past the crystal and olive stalls (not together) and Over Farm’s stall came into view. There was a bit of a bone-chilling wind blowing that day and the poor solitary guy trying to serve the customers swarming around the produce didn’t look a happy bunny. I was quite happy as there was masses of kale - 85p per branch, or £2 for three bits. I took the 3 for £2 offer. I’ve never witnessed someone with red-looking, frozen fingers trying to struggle to open a carrier bag and shove a large unwieldy stem of kale into it, whilst fighting the wind as well, without any assistance. I would have helped, but this drama was occurring on the other side of the heavily-laden table of veg.
We wandered a little more around and after both buying some russet apples and a bottle of perry (Moosh again), we headed for some warmth and a soothing cup of tea. I had squeezed two cups out of a pot of Earl Grey and Moosh supped at hot chocolate. It was busy in that little place, and I felt a little conspicuous by carrying three rather large bags of kale, which had a chair all to themselves. How this kale was so badly mistreated but also well looked after during its long day out in Stroud.
Revived, we once again headed out and meandered around the usual haunts. I’m almost getting to know and remember the place now. Stroud’s a rather nice place to wander round, somewhat more so when there isn’t a force 9 gale blowing. It’s a busy little place, which on Saturday afternoons, and I suspect school holidays, fills up with gangs of kids, like every other town centre in the country. But there are less chav-types in Stroud than, say, Gloucester.
Soon it came beer time. This is another traditional aspect of any trip to Stroud, but more so on the first and third Saturdays of the month. The pub of choice this time was The Retreat. I couldn’t give you instructions on how to find the place but someone else can.
There was a slight quandary as to what we should start with, and it was very nearly some Kronenberg, but the lore of something different won over and beyond all else. A half each of strawberry beer was bought and tentatively supped for a the first few seconds. It was quickly decided that this was possibly a very girlly beer, but nonetheless utterly delicious.
The Retreat is a nice pub, not a chav in sight on this particular visit. A lively lunchtime crowd, but I could still hold a conversation with Moosh.
(And that was as far as I got, before my brain failed on so many levels. As it has ever since. It did before, but I don’t like to mention that too often. So, due to this post being sat around with no one to read for too long, I’m gonna add the bit of an email Moosh sent me regarding this, and just leave it at that. Unless I should remember certain aspects of it, thanks to the Random Bollockness From Pubs I be writing up.)
The strawberry beer pub was called The Retreat and then mad drunken old incest man pub was called The Queen Vic. Both very nice 
we must do it again sometime (but perhaps without the mad drunken old men this time?)
So, I will be performing a perfume check on you before we leave the house. What is it with you? You attract really mad drunk people! Maybe it’s not your perfume? Do you have this problem when out with Ms PG-Tips?
I think you have to mention the Kale. From the first struggling into the bag by the poor little man, to the carrying around from pub to pub, right down to the eating it for *every* meal for a week. Hehehe. They should ration kale into the small packets, like they do with sugar. Very sensible.
Don’t forget the we just zeros and ones man theory. But that will take some blogging. And possibly more strawberry beer to re-explore the ideas that made sense at the time
OK, well I’m off. Everything’s broken at the moment - the website is broken, the membership database is broken and sending out emails randomly. Gahhhhh. And it’s all up to me to fix. And I don’t have a clue where to start. Feck. Okely-dokely, skype me if you come online before 4.30…
Mostly Bea Whale, with email from Moosh
