Nottingham Pt 2: Old beer,the Cursed Galleon and Medieval Ring-toss

During the course of our 15 minute impromptu car-park chat with Christopher (we talked driving in England, visiting old buildings and life in America), we noted our fondness for old English graveyards -  the churchyards and the Victorian-era municipal cemeteries alike - and our eagerness to explore Church Rock, one of England's best muni's and one that had eluded us on our two prior trips to Nottingham.

We were worried about rain, but Christopher alerted us to another potential peril. Polish gangs, who evidently lurk the cemetery at dusk and at night, sparring over turf (some turf to fight over) and being generally menacing. Evidently part of their trade is illegal cigarettes - not necessarily a surprise, as legal ones are extortionately retailed throughout England.   

The term "Polish gangs" struck an odd note with us, a concept lacking resonance for a couple of American tourists, but it still gave us pause as we looked nervously down at the Nikons swinging at our chests. 

"Sometimes they're in there at night," Christopher noted, "and sometimes the Police chase them out. You'll probably be okay." 

My wallet, brimming with pound notes, was on the nightstand in our room, and I thought, eh, maybe I'll leave it there.

But the cemetery was closed anyway.  

We ambled down a few side streets toward City Centre. At the Market Square there seemed to be some sort of fair in progress - multi-colored lights, rides, vendor stalls - conspicuously sparkly against the grey of the evening and the grimly imposing Council House. 

What if they gave a fair and no one came? 

But...no people. Was the fair over? Or not yet begun? Had heavy rains earlier chased everyone anyway? A post-apocalypse scene, a Fellini-esque dream fugue? An hallucination?  

We climbed the hill toward the Castle. Normally a tourist magnet, the Castle was closed by this time, and probably little visited on a rainy Monday anyway. 

Nottingham Castle

Our friends at wikipedia tell us that the Castle was built originally by William the Conqueror in 1067, a stronghold to secure his occupation of Mercia, but the structure there now has little material relationship to William's castle. Rebuilt by Henry II, destroyed, re-built, and destroyed again, the original stone foundations dating to the 13th century are visible at ground level, but most of the rest was built in the 17th and 19th centuries, and the castle now stands as a museum and art gallery. 

In the adjacent courtyard,  Robin Hood (this is Nottingham, after all) is poised with bow and arrow at the ready, a few statues of Robin's homies stand nearby. 

'ello, Robin !!

The Trip

The Trip wasn't far from the Castle, just a quarter rotation around Castle Rock. The place was originally carved into the stone as the castle's brewery, the ale hoisted up through a hole in the stone ceiling. 

The ancient Trip - with the ale hoist at the top. 

The place itself is really two distinct dwellings - the timbered Inn, which dates to the mid 1600's, and the inner Inn, carved into the stone and dating to 1189. It is said that Richard the Lionhearted stayed at the Inn on his way to the Third Crusade.

Looking up at the ale hoist.

Our server guy seated us in the old section, a tiny stone-walled room up some steps from the timbered Inn section, a room with barely enough space to seat 10 diners. Various swords and other medievalia adorned the walls, 

Inside the Trip. 

and the legendary Cursed Galleon, draped in dusty cobwebs and enshrined in a glass case, stood on a shelf just over my shoulder. 

Dust me, face yer doom...

It is said that anyone who cleans the thing meets an untimely death - so no one cleans it anymore, and exactly how a ship model can gather dust inside a glass case remains a mystery.   

    

The food was beefy and generous - Glen our server recommended the Abbot's Brown ale, supposedly a recreation of the brown ale served here in medieval times, from the original recipe. It was bitey and a bit heavy, but otherwise nice; something told me it was probably crafted nearer to 21st century palettes than 12th century. I had a couple. Er...maybe three. 

Dinner finished and both of us aled-up, the bartender kindly called us a cab for the two miles back to the hotel. We were tired and it was raining. While we waited, I hung in the main pub area and watched as some locals were testing each other on the Trip's (evidently) renowned bar game: a ring hung from a ceiling chain is swung across the room to catch a hook at the far end of the pub. I don't know if this too had a tradition extending back centuries. Each of the three guys took a couple of turns at it, all to no success. Harder than it looked, I thought to myself. I just watched. One of them turned to me asked it I wanted to "give it a go." 

I shrugged and said ok. Lined up carefully facing the hook, which I could barely see. The image of dart-throwing I had seen in pubs in England - an elegant, gently-focused, simple-motion technique - flashed through my head. Don't fling it, just coax. I let the ring go and - bam - I hung it. First try. 

The three guys were flummoxed-impressed, as was I.  "You've never done this before," the guy said. 

"No, mate, I'm from out of town." 

We high-fived and they bought a round of shots. I got a little sticker-of-honor from the barkeep, who was also suitably impressed. 

After a day of pitiless rain, re-clutching cars, cheating bladder expulsion on the M1, getting lost in Nottingham, puzzling over deserted festivals and dodging scary Polish cigarette contrabandits...a moment of triumph at the Oldest Inn in England.