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.
Don’t tell everybody, but I think I’ve found a magical portal on the Somerset Levels. On a Sunday afternoon, at the beginning of Summer, I went out alone for a long cycle ride, intending to see a bit of nature and get fit. I got as far as Ham Wall Nature Reserve, only a couple of … Read more