The Prince Albert

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 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.