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 It was taken over by a young couple quite recently, but it turns out they've moved on already and been replaced by more new people - I think the guy's Irish, but I did (eventually) have a few beers after this encounter so I could be wrong.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...