Sunday should be a day of rest. Don't get me wrong, I'm not religious. I just don't see Sunday as a pub ticking day. Unless it is part of an epic holiday, in which case all bets are off.
I prefer my Sunday's to be uneventful. 'Cold compress to the head, cucumber slices to the eyes' kind of uneventful. A chance to reflect that the extra ESB in the Parcel Yard the previous evening wasn't so wise.
Rise at 11am, pop the washing in, do some exercises, water the plants, make a lunch with plenty of fresh veg but never cauliflower, watch David Attenborough talk to otters whilst ironing the BRAPA leisurewear, clean a few surfaces, read a bit of my crime novel, catch up on Neighbours, write a small bit of blog if I can be bothered, make an elaborate late tea, Antiques Roadshow, and bed.
That's my ideal Sunday.
But sometimes, in extreme circumstances brought about by silly pub opening times in pubs in silly locations with silly lack of public transport, you have no choice but to summon up your Daddy BRAPA and get ticking!
One tick remained in each of North Yorkshire and County Durham. Only on a Sunday do they open before 6pm.
First up, the North Yorkshire one, the 12 nooner.
|Swooping back in, fresh from Gwent, to claim the decisive tick|
Onwards towards rural Teesdale, close to where my Auntie lived before her controversial big money Lancaster transfer.
|Full bladder, brave face|
|That's a pub!|
|Fat Cat Milk Stout|