The Leyland, when not being pummelled by gales
If you live in Australia, or the wilds of Patagonia, driving a few hours to get to the pub isn’t a major thing. However, Diceman is British and our little island shrinks our sense of perspective somewhat, so I reckon a four hour drive for a pint is a fairly Big Deal. And our antipodean brethren may have braved all of nature’s toothy/venomy arsenal on their drive, but they never had to contend with the M62 on a Friday night: a rain-lashed corridor of misery slouching across the Pennines, choked with despairing commuters and buffeted by winds. (At one point the traffic stood still for so long the girls in the car next to us started getting changed for their night out. This certainly helped pass the time.)
Anyway, the point of this slog, plus the tearing down rattling dark country roads into the Northern corners of Wales, was to get to the Leyland Arms in Llanelidan. It was worth it to see our friends in the village, but also because this, friends, is a Proper Pub. There are locals who have their designated seats. Real beers made not very far away. In the summer, there are wedding receptions and fetes here. In the winter they host their own nativity complete with ‘no room at the inn’ cameos from the Steve the landlord. And when Steve is busy in the kitchen, you hop on the pumps and get pouring if there are people waiting. Chuck in a real fire, sturdy stone wales and a howling gale outside and you have all the ingredients for a splendid night in – when it’s the kind of weather that makes people burst through doors with theatrical head shakes, you know that this is the right place to be.
And! They do food. Not gastro food, and not despairingly microwaved food. Proper food. Like, hot chicken and mushroom tarts made at home and pimped with fiesty chillies, served next to a heap of sandwiches. Steve shouts ‘go’ and all present fall on them like wolves (although that could have just been Diceman and the Actor, his companion in carnivorous raptures). Then, when it’s time for the taxi into the furthest pools of inky black night and the farmhouse where our pals live, you simply trot out with your half finished pints and bring the glasses back in the morning.
No fuss, no nonsense. Just a proper pub, done properly. All hail the Leyland.
As the friend who’s surprise party you made this trek for I’m eternally grateful. It was fantastic to see you again and I look forward to when you can visit our humble abode and enjoy our local again. Until then – CYA in York