Note: Isaac Newton's law.... 'for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction'. These wise words have nothing to do with faith or science, in fact they were written specifically for the real ale drinker and translate as follows:-
For each day out in Bridgnorth, there is a day of atonement in Solihull.
Indeed, as great a heaven that Bridgnorth is, surely there is no greater hell than Solihull. The Lord may have turned water into wine at the wedding at Cana, but i believe it beyond even His powers to make a decent pub appear in Solihull town.
Having met my drinking buddy in Brum, JB and I were pleased to hear the sound of the train rumbling into Moor St Station, so I could avoid the smell of sick that pervaded the station waiting room. A quick journey saw us alight at Solihull and meet Mumfie, our other drinking buddy.
The highlight of the trip was immediate, a quick drive out to The Case Is Altered. Mumfie typed its location into his sat-nav, which answered in a gritty voice, ‘Thank f*** for that, I thought you might want me to direct you to a pub in Solihull’ – I, worried, looked at JB. Mumfie smiled.
The little pub was great, it is traditional, with a few ales. JB and I tried them all, alas Mumfie just the one, on account of driving. I found it friendly and worth a visit and as we walked out, little did we know, the day had already peeked.
We parked up back at Mumfie’s place and headed into town, via the next port of call – The Golden Acres. A dull and depressing exterior does in fact hide a place that has good service and a few real ales, though the place was perhaps in need of a bit of TLC. The chap took one off, as he wasn’t happy with it – fair play to him and out of the choice of London pride, or a Cottage Brewery beer, so I opted for the Christmas Cracker, which was decent.
Nearing Solihull town, the hopes I had for the Red House, it being a Thwaites pub, vanished pretty quickly as we entered the first of a plethora of large, open plan, soulless places. We drank and moved on to eat at the Greville, a Sizzling pub – so quite traditional there then – its multicoloured walls cried out for George, Bungle and Zippy to sing ‘happy days are here again’, in a sarcastic tone.
Having walked through the grounds of the old workhouse, we arrived at The Townhouse, I walked in, turned, and walked out, thinking the Workhouse would have been more welcoming. Next, was the Saddlers. A name that made me think of the real ale pubs of Walsall, sadly, the poor Pedigree returned me to Solihull with the sting of a horse-whip.
TBC
