Only recently have I become aware of the difference between cask ales and beer served from kegs and bottles. My intellectual hold on the subject remains tenuous but my taste buds become more discerning all the time.  In 1971 CAMRA (CAMpaign for Real Ale) was born in the United Kingdom.  The goal of this august body is to rail against the big breweries and new style bars which are supplanting the traditional pubs and brews.  As staunch supporters of this campaign, my friend and I felt duty bound to find a local pub and heft a couple of pints with our lunch; fortunately for us, The Ship Inn was right up the road and just around the corner in Raglan. 

                                    

                                                            The Ship Inn
                                     If you know that it's on High Street you know
                                                     all you need to know.
                                Note the town well and pump to the left of the table.

First, a parking note.  I was brought up in Tennessee.  It startled me upon moving to Los Angeles to learn that parking on the street - sometimes blocks from your apartment - is SOP in LA.  In Knoxville, if someone parked on the street in front of my mother's house for the whole day I would first check to see if the person was dead and then call the police.  UK parkers take LA parking one step further - you can park anywhere, anytime, no one gives a damn.  That is a slight exaggeration but only slight.  Throughout our trip we parked in places that I wouldn't consider just sitting in with the motor running while someone else goes in for milk.  I would like to say I got used to it but obviously I didn't.  Raglan was no exception we parked on a street not wide enough for one lane of cars that had traffic going both ways and cars parked on both sides.   
 
As UK pubs go The Ship Inn is one of the more accessible; lots of public houses wouldn't be up to snuff when it comes to building laws in the United States - that, however, is one of their many charms.  They are a convoluted bunch.  Many pubs have multiple bars, some with only one or two tables.  The Ship Inn has two bars and two eating areas.  It also has a fine room for darts and billiards with a big, welcoming fireplace.  We sat in the front room within hearing distance of the regulars at the bar.  They nodded and were hospitable but the language turned to Welsh upon our arrival.  Welsh is one of those languages that is so foreign to my ear that I can't get a glimmer as to what is being said.  The conversation could have been politics, agriculture or raw sex and I would not have had a clue; but Welsh is also a language so delightful when spoken that it hardly matters what is being said just listening is like hearing a melody.

My friend had curry -  found readily throughout the island - and I had the standard fish and chips.  Both were quite tasty particularly since neither of us had eaten since getting off the plane in Bristol.  He had a local Wye Valley ale and I partook of a cider.  I had never thought of ordering cider until visiting the UK but now look for it stateside - in good US pubs it is widely available.  After recouping for the better part of an hour, we went back to the street for a quick look about Raglan.

I stuck my head in every magazine shop and post office (across the pond "post office" has an entirely different meaning, we'll revisit that subject further into our journey) looking for the results of the mid-term elections in the colonies.  Surprise, surprise. the people of Raglan didn't get up that morning all a dither about whether Heath Shuler won his race for Congressman from North Carolina's 11th district.  I remained in the dark on US politics until very late in the day.  We ran headlong into another fine looking pub at the end of High Street but knew the afternoon stretched out before us and probably one pub per town would have to suffice.  Instead, we wandered into 

                                       

                                            N. S. James and Son, established 1959

which was right next to the second pub.  Try though I might I could not get the sign large enough to make legible the following title:  "Home Killed Meats".  A smaller ground level sandwich board let visitors know that one of those home killed meats was a lamb named Walter.  Had I ever thought of eating lamb - baaaaa - which I haven't, knowing the name of Mary's little companion would have permanently deterred me.  Fortunately for Mr. James and his son being personally acquainted with their meals appeared to set well with the inhabitants of Raglan.  The shop was bustling.  My friend purchased a jar of lamb free chudney - he's not above eating lamb but carrying a slab of meat around South Wales in a rental car seemed inadvisable - and we were on our way.  Off to find Ludlow and its famous Sausage Trail.  Eat your heart out, Walter!