Milly Mossop

I am the worst blogger in the world

I quite literally can't believe that I last posted in October of last year. 10 months ago! If this blog were a child it would be handed over to social services quicker than you could say "oopsie".

Anyway, so what I'm going to do is re-design the site, learn how to upload photos and stuff and then do a big re-launch, as if that was the idea all along and I've just spent the last 10 months coming up with a really good plan. Downside of course being that whatever I come up with will seem like a shit plan for 10 months work.

For now I just wanted to share some news, except I don't think I've got any readers left, so this is going to feel a bit like talking to a wall. I'm getting married! Woo hoo! (Wall stares back impassively and thinks 'what, you expect me to go out and buy a hat?')

Well, Wall, just in case you grow some ears and a sense of romance, let me tell you it was incredibly exciting. May 18th in Montgomery, Wales, overlooking beautiful countryside. I laughed then I cried, then I laughed again (then he said "are you going to say yes?" so I did) then we went for a pint in the Crown Inn. Good pub.

The date's fixed for May next year in Northumberland and so far no one involved has fallen out with anyone else which by all accounts is a minor miracle. Still, plenty of time yet.  I have 5 wonderful bridesmaids, recently re-branded boozemaids after our latest attempt at wedding dress shopping (in fairness this time we looked at dresses before drinking our body weight in Chardonnay. Although I wish someone had spotted the cow muck on my jeans before we went into the posh Pimlico bridal shop, I'm sure the lady noticed). And I have a Mate of Honour - Gandolf - who I have to say I'm congratulating myself on appointing. He's just like a Maid of Honour - supportive, encouraging, reassuring, wise - without being a girl about it. With Gandolf it's all short, pithy emails and colour coded spreadsheets. I can't write an email of less than 200 words and spreadsheets scare me. So hurrah for boozemaids and mates of honour! I'm hoping I get to keep them after the wedding.

So, pubs.... Wall, how would you feel if this blog took on more of a bridal tone than a 'pubs I've been to' tone for the next 9 months?... It's just that a) hard not to think about the wedding when I have 20 minutes downtime in front of the computer and b) the pretty wedding dress I saw on Tuesday will look even prettier without a 9 month London Pride baby filling it out.

But I will try, I promise. Ok, what pubs have I been to recently?... The Grosvenor, Sidney Road, SW9 - brilliant and bad as ever. The Warwick, Warwick Way, Pimlico - really like that actually (not that I can remember it after the 3rd bottle of Chardonnay) and the food smelled good too (just wish I'd had some). The Oddfellow Arms in Alnwick has had a change of management again and doesn't do ale at all at the moment - I really hope they do by next May because it's the ideal pub for wedding guests to congregate in before the service, near the church and HUGE beer garden. See, couldn't last 3 pubs before I brought the wedding up again. Sorry.

Mozz is round at Macbeth's doing a Battlestar Galactica marathon (remember they used to live together in Balham? Now they live 500 metres apart in Stockwell. It's sweet in a slightly disturbing way. I don't think Mozz ever grew out of boarding school). When he's not here our sofa is always broken (it only works if we're both on it together) so really I should be grateful for his childish interest in '70s science fiction bad remakes because it gets me in front of the computer with an empty head.

But maybe I should take a good book to bed with me instead. Which reminds me, I read a genuinely excellent laugh-and-cry-out-loud book the other day, Wife in the North by Judith O'Reilly. She's got a blog as well which I'm going to add to my side bar in a gently sycophantic, fawning way (*I want to be like you when I grow up and have babies and live in the back of beyond and write books*).

And that's all, Wall. See you again in another 10 months. Or the next time the boys are watching Battlestar Galactica, which will be hopefully sooner.

The Jolly Fisherman, Craster, Northumberland

No visit to Northumberland is alreet without a crab sandwich and a pint in The Jolly Fisherman in the unspoilt fishing village of Craster (Cornish fishermen weep tears of nostalgia when they hear its name).

First though, work up a thirst by walking to Dunstanburgh Castle and back, taking in some of the most dramatic castle-coast views (especially at high tide)this country has to offer. The only thing that will ruin this outing for you is forgetting that the pub shuts at 3.00pm (and stops serving food a short while before then) so really you want to be setting off no later than 1.00pm if you want to fit the walk in, which takes about an hour depending on how long you dally at the castle admiring the views.

On return to the pub, face slapped by the salty wind, you should order as many different snack dishes as the size of your party will manage. In an ideal world this will mean a round of Craster crab sandwiches, crab soup (made with whiskey), chips (don't underestimate the chips, they're cooked in beef dripping, just like the good old days), and stottie cake pizza (Geordie cuisine special).

I note that the website also mentions Craster kipper pate; I've no doubt this is equally excellent (Craster being the home of some very famous kippers that you can buy from Robson's opposite the pub) but for some reason I've never eaten it. I think perhaps pate is only something I see on a menu when I'm in London, up here I'm blind to anything that doesn't have a whiff of fatty heart about it. Not that crab is bad for you in the slightest, it's the chips and general tendency to fry everything in cow fat that's probably not advisable 365 days a year.

The last few times I've been to the Jolly Fisherman, including yesterday, they've had Black Sheep on the one and only pump. Nothing wrong with that, I'm a big fan of Black Sheep. And besides, it's really a pub that you go to for the location, food, and excellent Northumbrian pubness. Charcoal sketches on the walls of ancient but immortal looking fisherman hung next to nets and other fishing paraphernalia give the place an air of history and authority. And overall 'cool'.

I have to leave The Jolly Fisherman there, although I could witter on a bit longer - the Battle of Britain service is about to kick off (my parents have a canny knack of waiting til I'm up here before casually mentioning that there are not one, but two 'must see' church services on Sunday. This one, and Evensong, at which dad is reading a lesson so being a dutiful daughter I must go along and cheer, or whatever the appropriate level of support is).

The Alnwick Ale Trail

Later that evening your intrepid trio (ie me and my long suffering parents) set out to exhaustively critique every pub in Alnwick (except the ones we already know are awful). There was however an important criteria: we could only drink in pubs that serve real ale. In the same way that some people try to cure caffeine addicts by gradually replacing their coffee with decaf, if anyone were to succeed in replacing my dad's beer with lager he'd get rather jittery, to say the least.

So, first stop: The Market Tavern, Fenkle Street. No ale. Before I was dragged back out though, feet barely touching the ground, I managed to ascertain that the bar was looking a bit shabby, and there was a depressive sitting on his own nursing a pint and a nervous packet of Drum tobacco: it's always a bad sign if a pub is the sanctuary of choice for the town depressive.

Anyway, swiftly on down Fenkle Street and up to Narrowgate, the street that leads to much famed Alnwick Castle (it was famous for lots of things before Harry Potter was filmed there but I guess you have to go with the zeitgeist) and home to the Oddfellow Arms.

My parents desperately want the Oddfellow Arms to work, as it's a smashing little pub and located just beyond the puke fest that is Saturday night in central Alnwick. It was taken over by a young couple quite recently, but it turns out they've moved on already and been replaced by more new people - I think the guy's Irish, but I did (eventually) have a few beers after this encounter so I could be wrong.

Anyway, we walked in, straightaway saw an Abbott badge on the hand pull. "ah, Abbott!" we chanted in unison. To which the friendly looking, possibly Irish chap pulled a 'I'm really sorry but I can see we're going to be friends so it's ok face' and said "I'm sorry, I've got no Abbott until tomorrow..."

"Ok" replied my (ex military) matter of fact daddy, "we'll come back tomorrow". Cue appreciative laughter from the barman, until he realised my dad had turned on his heel and was already half way out the door, followed by his apologetically giggling wife and daughter. Then there was a confusing exchange where the barman, to his credit, admitted that actually it would be Friday, not tomorrow, that the Abbott would return, once he realised that clearly nothing else would do for this ale deranged family and better to own up now then face their wrath a second time.

We didn't actually make it back to Oddfellows on Friday, but I'm definitely keen to the next time I'm up - it's a super little town pub, which a 'huge beer garden' (says the blackboard on the street) that I've yet to see, and there was something about the barman, who I'm pretty sure was the landlord, that tells me he'll turn the place around and bring the locals back in.

This time however, we continued our journey to a safe bet, the Olde Cross, where there's always a guest ale on. We weren't to be disappointed, and there's an interesting story about the Olde Cross, also known as the Dirty Bottles, that I'll come back to.

Right now though I've got to put some slap on and rush off to my laydeez wot lunch appointment with a dozen fine fillies. Followed by a big party in our flat tonight...

The Anglers Arms, Weldon Bridge, Northumberland

On the way back from Rothbury, Dad remembered that he needed some cartridges for a clay pigeon shoot so he took us on a detour to the gun shop at Weldon Bridge. Unfortunately for him, I'd spotted an alluring sign on the side of the road - 'The Anglers Arms, this way' (or something).

And being the wonderful parents they are, they opted not to put up with my whining and just go straight to the pub, which, I have to say, I had a good feeling about.

The Anglers Arms  is a pub that really makes an effort, but actually doesn't need to. I mean, it's even better for the effort it makes (you can tell just from the website, and the very smart, high quality brochure the barman kindly gave me), but if they just opened the doors and pulled the beer it would still be an interesting, charming pub.

As it is however, it's interesting, charming, keeps its beer (Adnams, Black Sheep, Timothy Taylor, Bombardier) excellently and its staff happy (the cheery, helpful chap who served us is a great ambassador for the place) AND it's got its own railway carriage which serves as a restaurant.

I could go on for ages, but Maccie B's spent the last 2 hours cooking up an absolute storm in the kitchen, with not one but two different curries on the go, and it's ready. And I'm hungry.

To wrap though - The Anglers Arms: bloody brilliant.

The Newcastle House Hotel, Rothbury, Northumberland

I've got a confession to make. I've been putting off reviewing all the pubs I went to in Northumberland last week because there's so damn many of them, and it almost makes this more a chore than a fun way of wasting time at work. Dammit it is work now. Which is partly why I've taken a new job that's only 4 days a week, so I can have a proper bash at writing.

I don't mean just writing a blog - frankly there's not much money in this - but maybe a book type thing. Or at least a pamphlet. And if that doesn't work then I can at least console myself with the knowledge that today, Friday 11th May, was the last Friday I'll ever work. Which in itself more than makes up for being a failed writer - I'm on a 4 day week! And I don't even have kids yet!! Hahahahahaha.

Anyhoo, back up North...

Rothbury, as I'm sure you will remember, is a quaint and gentle village nestled in the bosom of  Coquetdale, Northumberland. But more importantly it's home to my Granny, who is the very heart of the village.

The last time we visited, The Newcastle House Hotel was suffering a boycott from the Mossop clan - I still don't know why, but I know the management's changed again since and that's good enough reason to give it another chance.

Even though she's a well known face on the Rothbury scene, I think Granny fancies herself as a mystery customer, incognito in pearls. For example, as we entered the bar, she stage whispered loudly "now that's a good sign. See him sitting by the window? He used to be a regular, if he's started to come back then things must have got better".

And indeed they have. The chef from another, well regarded, local pub has been shipped in and replicated the original pub's menu. So now there's a whole section of fresh, locally caught fish. Granny and I both had rainbow trout, which Granny adored but I should have had sea bass - I'm more a sea than a river fish person. Muther ordered a ham salad, and we reckoned she was the only person that day to order salad, the plate was piled as high as it was wide and she was still chomping her way through it when we were on to coffee.

What I'll never get about this pub / hotel / restaurant though, is why they think cheap London cafe is a good look for the restaurant. Surely they can invest in some brighter tablecloths, and fabric napkins to raise expectations a little?

Anyway, the food was definitely a marked improvement, the bar suits its purpose and its central location in the village makes the Newcastle House a safe bet, for as long as this new management stays at least. I can't in all fairness pretend it's a contender for perfect pub, because it's never felt like a pub to me (and I'll admit that's partly because I tend to go there for lunch with my Granny) but, there's certainly nothing wrong with it. Apart from the paper napkins.

The Railway Hotel, Rothbury, Northumberland

I've got several reasons to visit Rothbury: my Granny lives there, my dentist (who also sells fresh farm eggs) is there, and... ok so I've got two reasons to visit Rothbury.

Generally though, everyone should; it's a charming village in a valley a short drive across dramatic moors from Alnwick, and a walk along the Coquet River in spring is about as removed from fighting for space on the City pavements as you can get.

For as long as I can remember we've combined a trip to the dentist and Granny with lunch at the Newcastle House Hotel in the heart of the village; once very briefly famed outside the County for Gazza falling off the wagon there in spectacular fashion. To be honest though, and this may hurt my family, much as I always raved about the mince & dumplings, fish & chips, and other good honest pub grub on the menu, I always thought it was caff food. Good beer though (usually Old Speckled Hen).

Anyway, it seems the Newcastle has fallen rudely from grace - something to do with a change of management, a big bar brawl, and another change of management that I'm not quite following - so last Saturday we changed the habit of, quite literally my lifetime, and tried the Railway Hotel instead.

Mozz and I got there first (having excused ourselves from garden watching at Granny's to exlore the village) - in fact we were very almost the first in the pub altogether, but for one chap who looked welded to his bar stool and helpfully suggested the John Smiths when I was told the Deuchars, and all other ales, were off. Of course when the rellies arrived my Pa was having none of this and persuaded the landlord to put another barrel back on quick sharpish.

I fully expected, to my shame, that the food would be worse than at the Newcastle. And how wrong I was: it was all locally sourced, home made and jolly tasty. Between us we had steak & ale pies, Whitby scampi, seafood risotto and a salmon dish, and all got the thumbs up. And despite my full tummy I couldn't resist a sticky toffee pudding, protesting all the way that it was to share with Mozz (I think he got one mouthful) which was simply divine, possibly the best (of many) I've had.

I'd like to see the Railyway in full swing; it was too big and empty when we were there for an early lunch, and I gather management has recently changed so maybe they're still building up their fan base. If they're reading this (they won't be, but let me pretend) then this is me proudly stepping onto that base and looking forward to my next dentist appointment.

John Bull Inn, Alnwick, Northumberland

I've been building up to this moment for quite some time. Imagine if your favourite film was, say, The Godfather (because almost everyone's is) and you'd watched it 100 times before someone asked you to review it.

So here goes.

I've been drinking in the John Bull since it was legal (as in, since I was 18, not since drinking alcohol was legal) during which time there have only been 2 landlords; John Pollock, who is sadly no longer with us, and for the last 5 years of so, Gus (who, like Madonna, doesn't need a surname).

The pub is on a quiet residential street, Howick St, away from the younger drinking scene of the town centre, and is rightly famed for placing the importance of well kept ale above any other.

In terms of a venue, it's small, smokey, and whilst never unwelcoming, on certain evenings you might secretly wish you were a member of the Alnwick Leek Club, or at least knew someone on the darts team. It's a real locals' pub (top tip: if you greet anyone as John, Fred or Bill, there's a good chance you'll get it right and be treated as a long lost friend). (I've no idea what any of the women are called but you could always try Fred and see what happens). However more recently, with new holiday homes opening in the area, you're as likely to see a gaggle of quietly eager middle aged tourists from the home counties, which is no bad thing and good for local business.

But, the room and ambience amenable as they are, the vast majority of punters are there for the excellent range of real ales that Gus keeps and rotates with superb frequency. I fully intended last Friday to make detailed notes of what we were drinking but unfortunately I drank too much of it and now it's a hazy memory. We definitely began with Red Dust from Consett Ale Works (incidentally Consett features throughout my life, my first bank account was there, some of my paternal relatives hail from the area, and my first favourite grown up snack - Phileas Fogg's Mignon Morceaux - comes from there too).

The Red Dust was a perfect first pint, all wetness and taste with no pretension. Later we moved on to a heavy stout called Expresso which was the exact opposite, but nonetheless commendable and you certainly wouldn't find it in Wetherspoons.

The John Bull doesn't really need accolades from me so I'll stop here; suffice to say, if you're in the area and like your beer and don't give it a look then you're no better than someone who claims to be a film buff but has never got round to watching The Godfather.

The Hope and Anchor, Alnmouth, Northumberland

The eagle eyed may notice that it's less than 2 hours since my last post when I was eating kebabs in Balham, so I can't really pretend that in the meantime I've been to Northumberland and back.

What I have been doing during Battlestar Galactica though is eating Space Invadors (retro genius from the boys), trying to find other blogs on a similar mission to my bad self, and getting increasingly astonished by the lack of interest in pubs.

Imagine my joy then when I finally came across pintofale.com, written by two affable sounding chaps from Leeds, Matt and Mike, who seem to have the right idea when it comes to beer. Joy unabounded when I came across their recollections of two pubs I know well, The Hope and Anchor and The Sun, both in the hugely underrated Northumbrian coastal village of Alnmouth (honestly beats me why stock brokers would rather fight 8 hours of weekend traffic to reach the coast of Cornwall when they could be in Alnmouth in 3.5 hours on the 17.30 train from Kings Cross. You can be in the pub by 9.15. Anyway, so long as no one pays any attention to my wonderings, Alnmouth and its house prices are safe so let's keep it that way).

Right, it's nearly Milly's bedtime (absolutely have to make it to the office tomorrow) but I'm looking forward to reading more of Matt and Mikes' blog, and hope they don't mind my lazy adoption of their reviews in the meantime.
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Postscript: I'm having domain mapping issues and think I might be in breach of blogging etiquette by stamping millymossop.com on top of the url of any site I link to. Please don't hate me whilst I work out how to fix it! (And tell me if you know what I need to do, you clever sausage.)