Feet washing

A delicious glass or three of Jaipur accompanies this gorgeous summer day as I hide from the thrum and thump of the Morris men whose drums singe the air; Dulverton folk festival draws in a caravan of Bohemians and bandits who spam the town with their guitars. A strum here and a strum there; the Bridge Inn draws them in with a mini beer festival that features RCH’s luscious East Street Cream, Orkney’s steadfast Dark and the Carmen Miranda of an ale Jaipur, plus several others. Meanwhile at the top of town the Rock Inn features Black Cat, Pitchfork and a couple of others. Men with hats that feature daisies as a halo sip and sing their way through these ales, while the locals turn their nostrils up at various delights. Try a real ale says someone at the bar to one of the town’s cricketers who shows off his yellowing bruise from the previous weekend (he bowled me there we are told and once again I reiterate that cricket is more dangerous than rugby); I would rather wash my feet in it comes the reply, filthy stuff; and he orders a Guinness. I start to think about going on about that all good beer is good beer, but lose the will to live (I don’t want to be known as a real ale radical, all good beer is my universe). It’s wasted on me says Herbie as he savours his Carlsberg, twisting the knife in the wound, but when he turns up at my house after taking James to the pub across the road for a game of pool with Jack, I offer him a swig of Prima Pils from Victory. No thanks he says, not really interested, oh alright he says, and tries it — that’s not bad is it, he says, face bemused. Can I have some more? Not really I say, but try this bottle of Bel Pils. He enjoys it. Result! Now for the feet washing man.