The Sherwood, Sherwood Way, Preston

It is a stark confession but I have to come clean and admit I didn't want to go to the pub.

There are few occasions in my life when I can make such an outrageous a proclamation without falling silent for a dramatic pause, before slapping my leg and bursting out into rolls of laughter.

'Got you again, what a lark', I say.

Oh how they laugh.

But after spending a weekend at my friends' two-day wedding bonanza, including continuous supply of free real ale (with sneaky trips to the pub before and after the service), my barrel was empty.

With Miss Chardonnay Sidekick temporarily unavailable for Sidekicking duties and the entire sum of my friends, saying he was going to the cinema tonight, I was left to slink into The Sherwood alone.

I took my pint of Wainwright and sidled into a seat in the corner, where I settled down to read my paper, slowly sip my beer and mind my own business.

On the table next to me a group of men, including a conspiratorial father and son, jovially plotted ways of continuing their night in town without 'Yer mum getting wind of it', while another small group popped in for a pint to take the edge off a day at work.

To my left a dad and three teenage children scurried through the door, ushered by the rain and made their way to the dining area, to break up the week with a cheap meal out.

As this steady tea-time hum built around me I sat quietly and enjoyed my pint, which seemed to offer me a little more flavour with every lazy sip.

Suddenly I realised, aside from the music (Middle of the Road and The Droaners), I had been perfectly relaxad for the past half and hour, without feeling the need to move at all beyond my left hand turning the pages and the right one to hoist my pint from time-to-time.

'This is a revelation', I thought to myself as I left.

'It's like relaxing at home except better because you're in a pub.

'Wait until I tell the others about this.

'No on second thoughts, it might be better to remain my little secret'.

Eagle and Child, Weeton

Sporting hanging basket head gear, clogs with a story to tell and braces grappling to hold the show together, the Original Garstang Morris Men danced like it was 1972.

The motley troop was once a fixture on the gala day circuit including starring performances in the 1972 and 1992 Guilds, before they danced off into the sunset.

After several of the troopers left Lancashire, with some even moving abroad, commentators claimed the Originals would never perform again.

But like former welterweight boxing champion Ricky Hatton chomping for a return, the Original Garstang Morris Men craved one last hit of glory in the Guild spotlight.

After long and complex negotiations between agents, the troopers dusted off their old kits and met at a top-secret location to begin practising for the most sensational of comebacks.

Within days the internet was awash with rumours the Originals were back. Their spokesman issued a public denial and after several men wearing flowery hats were photographed entering a church hall, he claimed it was a ‘coincidence’.

But later that week a press conference was called and before the world’s media, it was announced they would be performing at the Weeton Gala Day with a Guild date to follow if it went well.

And to the delight of the assembled crowd every clog clip, streamer stretch and tricky twist was performed with the same gay abandon which made them such a hit in their prime.

They formed up among a fantastic array of creativity and colour including a marching swing band,  excited youngsters in fancy dress and a  Muppets float to name just a few.

And what was at the very centre of this fantastic festival of British quirkiness?

Where was its heart? What bound the whole thing together? The Eagle and Child.

Set back from the green, jam-packed with character, tradition, a big beer garden and plenty of real ale, it is pretty much as good a village pub as you could hope for.

But occasions like the Weeton Gala Day show that places like this are much more than jumbles of old wooden beams and tankards, they are the fabric of rural society which turns a scattering of posh houses in fields, into a community of friends.

The Originals are now said to be stepping up their preparations for their Guild gig though they were last spotted enjoying the pub beer garden.          

My Euro 2012 Adventure

Every time the location of a European Championship is announced, my friends and I fly into action with a flurry of texts.

‘Right this year, we’re going to go’, one will say.

‘I’m up for it, agrees another’.

‘No this time I’m serious, we’re going to do it, it’s now or never’.

We usually get as far as searching the price of a pint in said country before abandoning it as non-starter.

Short of traipsing across Europe, the best on trains, planes and automobiles,  the only  way we could be sure to capture a bit of that Three Lions matchday atmosphere , was by hitting the pubs of Preston.

For our tournament’s opener against France, on the Monday cars were abandoned at LEP Towers as we hot-footed it down to The Sumners, in Watling Street Road, just in time to miss the first 15 minutes of the match!

Thankfully however, lots of other people seemed also seemed to have got stuck at work and we were able to get a seat close to one of numerous big screens. Popular with North End fans, I had expected it to be packed out by the time I got there, so a prime seat was an unexpected bonus.

The second match against Sweden was on a Friday night and I was in the mood for letting my receding hair down and enjoying a few pints of ale, so we headed straight for the Old Black Bull.

Ringing with nervous tension I quickly ordered a beer as I scoped out the best place to stand.  By the time kick-off came I was so excited, all I could do was sup my beer to keep me from jumping around the place.

My pint of Duck and Dive was pretty much gone by the time the players had mumbled the national anthem so I dashed back to the bar for a refill. Only then did I realise said beer which I had gulped down was, at 5.9% proof, rather stronger than my usual tipple. It did, however, make for a lively night which on the way home culminated in the enthusiastic re-enacting of several jaunty lunges, based loosely around the beer’s name. The atmosphere in the pub was good too from what I can remember.

For the Ukraine game we headed to The Wheatsheaf, in Water Lane, Ashton.  I knew exactly what I would get from this one; lots of big screens, bargain priced real ale and free snacks at half –time. You cannot go wrong. They even gave three locals a ‘Director’s Box’ treatment with the best seats in the house, along with free beer all night.

For the crunch quarter-final against Italy we decided against one of Preston’s sports pubs and instead went for Hartley’s in Mount Street. In the back room which is often closed off, they had created a ‘Euro Bar’ and invited regulars to reserve tables to ensure they all got a seat.

The room was just busy enough to build that collective tension which makes watching football so exciting without having to be crushed against a wall and because many people knew each other, the atmosphere was jovial (until the end).

Obviously it all ended in disappointment as it always does but at least it gave me more excuses for evenings in the pub.

‘Now to Brazil for 2014’.

The Water Witch, Canal Tow Path, Aldcliffe Lane, Lancaster

I first came upon The Water Witch when, one sunny Saturday, I decided to go for a little poddle on my bike up the Lancaster Canal and, to my surprise, ended up in Lancaster.

Intending only to have a quick scoot around Preston, I did not take so much as a dribble of water for my jaunt in the searing heat.

I had been hallucinating about drinking long before The Water Witch popped her head out in the distance and beckoned me towards her with a spindly, crooked finger.

Like any dedicated cyclist I knew it was vitally important to rehydrate so I went straight for a pint of real ale and some nuts before quickly returning outside to grab one of the last benches on the tow path.

My plan had been for a quick pint (maybe try to find a bottle of water too) before cycling home.

But I got chatting to a fellow who lived on a barge moored outside the pub who proudly told me of his perennial battle to to keep one step ahead of the tax man (with a home that floats you can just keep moving apparently), before he up and left in case a letter should arrive.

Then I found a newspaper and slumped back into the shade of an umbrella and quickly realised that I was feeling just a bit too content to be going traipsing back down the canal.

So I had a couple more pints and got the train.

In the couple of years since I did the ride, my memory had morphed and moulded the Water Witch into a place of mystical beauty like Xanadu in Coleridge's opium-fuelled poem Kubla Khan (though I wasn't on drugs).

So it was with the excitement of a 'big kid' whose Christmas list is made up entirely of beer, that I returned to The Water Witch.

By the time we arrived the sun was straining to cast its last waning shards on the tow path, so it was decided by those who did not have a decent woolly jumper to keep off the chill (ahem Miss Chardonnay Sidekick) that we would sit inside.

The building was originally a canal company stable block and only opened as a pub in 1978, taking its name from a passenger packet boat that once trawled the canal.

Inside, with bare stone walls and floors it retains much of the character of its former use, while there is a newer mezzanine floor used largely for dining.

On the evening we visited, it had been a sunny day and the pub felt strangely quiet, with just a handful of people left eating and a few scattered drinkers.

The bar staff were working at double speed to re-stock the bar after what must have been a day-long deluge of sun-worshipping locusts working relentlessly through their supplies.

I enjoyed a nice pint of Guzzler from the York Brewery while Miss Chardonnay Sidekick broke with tradition and ordered a Pimms (my round).

We had a perfectly pleasant evening sitting on stools next to a window looking out at the canal but I could not help feeling, to really get the best from the place you've really got to stagger upon it at collapsing point, half dead with thirst or hunger.

Or, go when the sun is out, that would work too.

The Borough, Dalton Square, Lancaster

Society is riddled with baseless advice about things which seem appealing but should be avoided at all costs.

We should never, apparently, meet our heroes because they will be a horrible let-down.

Footballers must never re-sign for a club where they have previously played because it will send their careers into terminal decline.

And I was always told (though I forget by who) that you cannot contrive to recreate a happy experience and expect it to be as good as you remembered.

But my happiest memories don't involve unforgettable holidays, stunning dawn sun rises or moments of epiphany.

No, the majority of my happiest moments involve good pubs and real ale.

So I find I am regularly able to create my perfect sunrise without too much fear of disappointment.

But after a great night in Lancaster last week, I was a little reticent about going back, in case I could not stumble upon another beery coup.

But thankfully, as soon as I came upon the splendid Dalton Square and slapped eyes on The Borough, my concerns melted away.

Unlike most pubs, where the bar is the most dominant eye catching feature, in The Borough it is hidden away to the side, an almost forgotten afterthought.

Instead you step into a lavish parlour with chandeliers, sumptuous leather settees and, to Miss Chardonnay Sidekick's delight, a rocking chair which kept her entertained for the duration.

Her only regret was having forgotten to bring her knitting!

The restaurant area was also popular and seemed to be doing a roaring trade but I was less interested in this than the gem which was concealed behind the bustling diners.

I picked my way through the restaurant, pushed open the back doors and slipped into a dream.

Under large canopies among great big trees and twinkling lights, sat serene drinkers, as a barbecue sizzled in one corner and music bounded from another.

It was perfect. I stood motionless and confused.

'Am I asleep? Or is the restaurant door some strange portal into another beer dimension, the likes of which I could never have imagined?'

I stepped back into the restaurant to test it again but it was still there.

'Ben in Beer Wonderland. That's what I will call this', I proclaimed as I dashed back into the pub, to tell Miss Chardonnay Sidekick of my revelation.

'I'm not moving, I like this rocking chair', she growled..

'It's out of this world I replied, 'You'll love it. And where did you get that knitting from anyway?'

Engrossed in someone else's cross stitch, I left Miss Chardonnay Sidekick and floated back into Ben in Beer Wonderland, knowing I can recreate the most perfect epiphany, whenever I like.

*You can follow me on Twitter @RobinsonBee

The Myerscough, Samlesbury

We wandered peacefully along the beach, forming satisfying imprints on the crisp, wet sand freshly smoothed by the retreating tide.

The glimmering sun tickled the ocean and a gentle breeze urged us enticingly onwards.

'Right sack this caper, we need to get ourselves back to Lancashire and quickly.

'It's all very well us living it up here in Prestatyn but this is precious beer garden weather', I announced to Miss Chardonnay Sidekick whose face began to curl.

'But we're on the beach, it's a beautiful day and we're having a nice time'.

'Exactly, it's perfect', I replied reassuringly.

'Just think how nice the beer gardens will be today in all their glory'.

On the promise of a cool glass of Chardonnay in a sun-drenched beer garden, I somehow managed to negotiate our hasty exit from sunny Wales for a quick dash back to Lancashire.

But as we neared home the clouds began to roll in, becoming more threatening as we came closer to Preston.

'Not good', I thought to myself, 'There's going to be trouble here'.

So thinking on my feet I resolved to drive until I found a sunny break in the clouds and pull up at the nearest pub. Genius.

Preston was not looking great so I carried on down the A59 until Samlesbury where I found those glorious rays beaming down.

Quickly I pulled into The Myerscough and headed for the door.

It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when we got in and the place was packed out, without a single seat to be had. 

Each table was packed with families and groups of friends young and old who were either tucking into Sunday roasts or hungrily waiting for their meals to arrive.

I took my Robinson's Dizzy Blonde and followed Miss Chardonnay Sidekick out into the beer garden.

There we sat alone in the large, pleasant grassed garden, enjoying the 'sun' which was not offering us quite enough in the old temperature stakes to stop us from shivering ever so slightly.

'So this is pleasant isn't it?', I said. 'Nice little pub with a traditional feel to it, though I suspect it has been altered a fair bit inside'.

'Triffic', she replied.

I was about to make a joke about Rodney Trotter when a thick, dark cloud rolled over and seemed to settle itself just metres above our heads.

We looked up to see this great, angry mass appearing to strain like a dog on a poor diet.

'Is that hail I can feel?' said Miss Chardonnay Sidekick.

'Oh no I don't think so', I replied just as a deluge of ice bricks came crashing down on top of us, missing the rest of the garden, which remained bathed in sun.

We dived into the car just as the evil ice cloud clocked our movement and unleashed the rest of its freezing arsenal on the windscreen.

'Well that was a bit of fun, where do you fancy going next weekend?'

The Sun Hotel and Bar, Church Street, Lancaste

You could argue all day about the Royal Family, dissecting their value for money and relevance to modern Britain but after the fantastic Diamond Jubilee celebrations, I can honestly say I am right behind our Royals.

With a long weekend in prospect I turned off my TV, unplugged the radio and my cheap computer was wheezing anyway, so I was completely free to indulge my life's biggest passions; curry and beer.

With Miss Biryani Side Order in tow we munched through a celebration of spices at my local Indian, while plotting how to make best use of our long weekend.

On such an historic occasion, we thought there could be nothing more appropriate than zipping on the train up to Lancaster.

After a little carefree wandering around the city centre, achievable only in the knowledge you won't be back at work in the morning, our rabble came upon The Sun Hotel and Bar, and decided to give it a try.

It was immediately clear the bar area has been modernised extensively but in its brickwork, nooks and snugs, plenty of the building's long history remains.

It also sported a war chest of real ale, from which I chose a Thwaites Lancaster Bomber, followed by a tangy pint of Lancaster Red which is brewed by the pub's owner Lancaster Brewery.

We started out in the beer garden before retreating to a tiny cubby hole of a room with a covered well in the middle, where some of the group ordered great looking (and I'm told tasting) meals which made me regret binging on curry for endless hours and days.

Grumpily, I waddled off to the bar for another pint and I became further riled when a large group piled in ahead of me and went straight to the bar.

Spewing muttered Victor Meldrew quotes, I decided the night was on a downward spiral but to my surprise the well-staffed bar dealt swiftly with the group and I was soon at the front of the queue being asked whether 'I wanted my pint in a straight glass or one with a handle?'

Such lavish choices I had never before known and it initially caught me off-guard.
But, living on the edge as ever, I decided it was a holiday so I would go mad and have a handle.

A revelation it was I tell you, especially when hoisting my glass up high to toast our good Queen for bearing the gift of a Bank Holiday Booze Cruise.