The Abbey, Smethwick, Birmingham

Pub #2352:

Sunday was cold and rainy, so much so that a flooded park was used as the initial reason for cutting the distance on a local race from a half to 0.42 marathon (a security threat turned out to be the real reason, but the rain was all I needed to keep from showing my support).  When the skies dried a bit, I finally ventured out on some rolling hills to Smethwick for a pint at the Abbey.

The barman asked where the accent was from and I told him Atlanta.  “How near is that to Sacramento?”  I told him about 4000 km.  “Oh, I’ve got someone from Sacramento in the other room who seems to speak your language.”  I told him that sounds swell and proceeded to avoid the other room at all costs.

 

The house is cavernous and the front half, where I stayed, had two other punters in it and a massive tele tuned to the History Channel.  In the momentary silences between commercials and the show (excavating a Roman villa on some cliffs overlooking Folkstone), I could hear their whispered conversation echoing in the room…gossip, from what I could tell, so there was really no reason for me to linger.