The Devonshire Arms

And there I was in a pub, the sort of pub in which I felt at home in as soon as I slipped in through the door, and across the road, in the distance, the big building that once housed Ind Coope’s brewery stood, reminding me of Ozymandias and his ruins and the end of things and Burton’s decline, while directly across the road, the Herculean conical containers of Molson-Coors towered over the road, like a crowd of nosy parkers looking across the garden fence, but in the Devonshire Arms I felt snug and occupied with the matter in hand, a glass of beer and an ambience that geared me up for an hour or two of escape. And you can read my review of this Burton gemstone in today’s Daily Telegraph here.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.