The Rifleman’s Arms in Chilkwell Street, Glastonbury, is a proper pub. It’s the pub I measure all other pubs against, if there’s a Platonic Ideal of Pubs then the Rifle’s, as it is affectionately known, is it. I first drank in there when I came to the town for the 8.8.88 Free Festival on the Tor, and when I moved to Glastonbury in 1993 it became my ‘local’. The pub has buckets of atmosphere with its dimly lit, low ceilinged 16th Century front bar, stone mullioned window frames, old wooden tables and roaring log fires in Winter.
In this post I’d like to take you a little farther afield than Glastonbury (25.4 miles away to be exact), to a holy well in the Quantocks and the story of its restoration. It’s a tale of one woman’s passion, of romance and community. Glastonbury seems to attract people who are passionate about things. One … Read more