More hard scrabble bar than what traditionalists might call a pub, the Cottage Spring was an outstandingly friendly house to this stranger with the ridiculous accent and sweaty workout kit (everyone who stepped out for a smoke paused for greetings as they passed me).
I got a lager because the mild was an industrial abomination but, 14 miles into the day’s runs, any source of carbs and micronutrients were welcome.
Leaving, I passed an absolutely spectacular Vespa that I think belongs to one of the barkeepers. I’ll find out on another visit, I’m sure.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 