The Herculaneum Bridge

I wasn’t expecting much from this pub. After dawdling idly through barren estates that I’d never seen before in which the only marker to show where we were was the turbid streak of river to our left, I found this building. Seemingly propped up on one side by an outcrop of rock and with a doorway populated by glaring smokers, it resembled somewhere that would result in my gruesome death if I supported the wrong team or hated places rhyming with geranium.
You can tell I was wrong. It got five stars for one thing. Inside, the Herculaneum Bridge was surprisingly well decorated, with a wide, acorn-​coloured bar that had model ships and steamrollers dotted above it. The barman was the epitome of Liverpudlian hospitality– mockingly jokey and the quiz machine paid out like a dodgy cash machine. Then when I thought it couldn’t get better, the barman shouted us to show he’d poured us three pints ‘on the house’.
It shows how plagued by cynicism I am that I was unnerved by getting free drinks off the staff. Things like that don’t happen, ever. The only downside with this pub is that it’s miles from anywhere and I imagine would be difficult for tourists to find if they were using it as a hotel. However, if that means it remains my hidden secret then I hope it stays lost forever in the centre of nowhere. It’s mine, my own, my precious.