The Prince Albert, Rodborough, Stroud

Pub life

I like visiting the Albert,

I like the way it commands a crossroads,

Welcoming all cardinal points of the compass, Just like a traditional inn should.

I like visiting the Albert in springtime, When vases of flowers greet you in the bar, With vernal fragrance and equinoctial promise, Stretching into blossoming infinity.

I like summer drinking in the Albert, With a pint of Alton’s Pride, It’s like an infusion of Thomas Hardy, With every novel you’ve ever read Returning like a Native.

I like autumn drinking in the Albert, When mists and mellow fruitlessness Entwine themselves around the eaves, Just like a gothic Woman in White.

I like winter drinking in the Albert, Sledging down the snow-scaped common, Then in the bar for mulled ale and wine, Just like we’re in A Christmas Carol.

I like chatting in the Albert, With a catholic clientele of Prince, Pauper, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland, many Musketeers, And the occasional Keith Allen Sheriff of Nottingham.

I like walking around the Albert, With a boulevard and a bowling green, A welcome in the streets, A chat on the allotments, It’s like the Orwell pub of his dreams.

I don’t smoke, myself, But I like the smokers at the Albert, They congregate out the back,

Telling their varied stories, Just like Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

I like sitting in the Albert, With its sofas, armchairs, ornaments, Wireless and pictures on the mantelpiece, It’s like the day when war broke out.

So I only visit the Albert, It’s the sans pareil of Stroud, Once visited, then, There is nowhere else to go, Apart from the Crown and Sceptre, Bisley House and Ale House – But those are stories for another time.

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