Behold Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem!

It’s the oldest pub in Nottingham, and it also lays claim to being the oldest pub in England.

The oldest “inn”, in any case. I referred to it as a “pub” because I didn’t like the look of the sentence “the oldest inn in England”.

Notice it has a longsword attached to its front.

I’d like to pretend that the figures in the foreground, all of whom are strangers to me, were not there at the time the photo was taken. The problem is, they look a little too glamorous to be ghosts.

Except, perhaps, the young man to the bottom right. He looks like a teenager who was hit by a car whilst running across the road to see the girl in the middle. Now his spirit will follow her forever more. The twist to the tragic tale is that he remains as invisible to her in death as he was in life.

No, these guys aren’t ghosts, but the place is full of them. Full of ghosts, and all manner of interesting things.

 

 

 

Swords. It’s full of swords. There are swords everywhere. Some of them are encased in glass cabinets. In case of invasion or damage to honour/pride, break glass.

Most of the swords are contained in a room referred to as the “museum room”. Looking up, you see this sort of thing:

Looking down, this:

Sitting in the corner, a writhing sculpture:

Other things include this portrait, which closely resembles someone I used to know:

This cursed chair, which can induce pregnancy if you sit in it:

And, best of all, this dusty old wooden boat. It’s contained in glass, just in case anyone should try to clean it. Anyone who’s cleaned it in the past has died, you see:

I would like to clean it, before locking myself in a room for a week with an ample supply of food. One of four things would happen:

1. Nothing. The curse would be lifted!

2. I’d lose the key, and either the building in which I’d locked myself would burn down with me trapped inside; or, having not informed anyone of my whereabouts, my food supply would run dry and I’d starve.

3. I’d trip and bang my head on a sharp corner.

4. I’d pass a most pleasant week in blissful, well-fed solitude, only to get murdered the second I emerged from hiding.

Also visited was The Canal House, which I’d been dying to see ever since I heard it has a canal running through it.

On that front, it certainly didn’t disappoint:

Canal boats can apparently dock there overnight! Given that the laws of “all or nothing” govern every walk of life, resident sailors are either treated to an open bar or given a two drink minimum.

They had a beer called “Surrealist Beer”, with a picture of Dali’s Lobster Telephone on the label.

That, unfortunately, was a disappointment. Crisp and refreshing, but you can’t just describe anything as “surreal”.

Beer must work harder to earn its surrealist stripes. I couldn’t tell you how, but I cannot wait to find out.