A courgette, a banana, plastic window frames, and a lesson from the Holy Land

You know you're tired when it takes two hours for the thought "why is there a black banana in the fridge" to become "it's not a black banana in the fridge; it's a courgette, a green courgette. I have never seen a black banana in our fridge ever before".

I hadn't had more than four hours of consecutive sleep in about two years, so maybe my guard was down. For what other reason was I about to almost stop loathing plastic windowframes in pubs? And what do you call a run of non-sequiturs?

I had about £7 sterling left in my bank account and, before you judge me, after all the bills were paid and the boy had a new pair of secondhand shoes, and after the usual endless toll of housework-after-work, I decided to go loco and spend all my "spare" loot on ale in local pubs. You should do the same if you're ever in the same twist. What else are you going to do? Buy two "meal deals" from a chemist? I don't think so, chico.

We set off, pockets full of valued metal, my friend and I, amid the amber dying of a midsummer North Devon Saturday. The severe British recession, caused, I thought as I strolled cheerfully along, by a ludicrous and disgusting property bubble and its greedy spivs, had not abated since our last Adam's Ales investigation in Barnstaple, despite our government attempting to reinflate the ludicrous and disgusting property bubble by giving all our money to the greedy spivs who naffed it all up in the first place, and, as before, many pubs were half-empty; I don't think they will, alas, all survive the year.

We walked past a former dive by the riverfront which Wetherspoon's are refitting and turning into their second pub in the town. As I have mentioned before, Wetherspoon's will survive anything; they are unfailingly popular, like Tesco. What else is there to say?

INTERLUDE...I was once sleeping in a hot hovel, a bit like a cave, in Jerusalem, when a red beetle buzzed heavily on to my bed. I whacked it and slammed it with my boot but the biting creature was totally indestructible. That's not a non sequitur; that's a lesson from nature. The lesson is: even the insects are awkward in the holy land...INTERLUDE ENDS

Anyway, enough of those memories of the holy land. Pubs are where English men and women should be able to talk freely (as long as they aren't talking about house prices). At the risk of starting another interlude, imagine keeping a tally of the topics of conversation in North Devon pubs in one hour of one evening. It would provide unique anthropological data and a snapshot of our lives. Entry One: Wilshaw is condemning the idea of using homes as investment vehicles. Anyway, enough of those anthropological studies and interludes; they are nearly as relevant as the immortal beetles of Jerusalem. Back to the courgette.

Of course I always knew of the Windsor Arms in Bradiford, a village on the outskirts of town. I live nearby and have been past the place many times. I have always been struck by the plastic windowframes. Now I was forced to confront my irrational dislike of PVC windowframes in public houses, particularly old country alehouses.

I know, I know, I know. Plastic is cheaper, lasts longer, gives better weather protection, and pubs have hardly got any spare cash to lavish on wooden sash window frames. I know. I know I'm a bit of a fanatic when it comes to plastic windowframes in pubs. In short, I hate them as much as I would a PVC frame in the local Victorian church.

But, I will say this: the Windsor Arms is one of the best pubs around. It is a Proper Local, with character and decent beer, as well as a cosy and unpretentious decor and atmosphere, not to mention the superb shove ha'penny. You should go there without question, my friends. They had Barum on draft from the nearby Pilton brewery of the same name, as well as a refreshing and well-cellared scoop of London Pride. Depressingly, the pub was almost deserted when we arrived at peak drinking time. Was everyone in Wetherspoon's or drinking beer from Tesco at home? We also called in for one at the Corner House in the town centre, which, I am glad to say, was packed out in full 1970s-style boozer mode. I've written about that place before, so I won't go on. If you want to pretend you are in an episode of Life on Mars, it's the place for you. It's great.

And it's strange how things are not always as they might at first seem. The next day I looked in the fridge and just could not believe my peepers. There, as bold as busts of Blair and Bush on a brass bedpost, was a black banana on one shelf and a courgette on another. This could only be a lesson from nature and the lesson was...er, hang on...

The Windsor Arms, Bradiford, Barnstaple

Adam's Ale Rating: 4 out of 5

Drink This: Barum Original or London Pride

I visit a Devon pub with a Thai flavour and the Beer Spill Rule (BSR) is ignored

We cycled home on the footpath next to the River Taw in the late-May dusk with bats circling overhead and moths flickering past our ears. What finer way to end an evening of serious journalism than with a straight empty path unfolding before you at speed under the powerful glare of a bicycle headlight in the North Devon countryside?

And the salty estuary breeze drying the spilled beer on your clothes....

A couple of hours earlier, we had arrived at the George Hotel in Braunton, where it had been a pleasant surprise to find half-a-dozen people who were originally from Thailand standing in the airy bar. In fact, it was a pleasant surprise to find a half-a-dozen people standing at a bar in North Devon on a midweek night, full stop, given some of the "Mary Celeste" alehouses I have visited and walked by during my odyssey in recent months.

But the Thais were workers, not customers; in common with a number of public houses, the George, which dominates a corner on the main road through the centre of Braunton, is heavily marketing its food, in this case, from Thailand, and it has clearly decided to do so as authentically as possible.

And this seems to be the trend at the moment: it's either "traditional English grub" or Asian cooking, and quite often a mixture of the two. (A smartypants - don't know any of them! - would here point out that what we call "Indian" food in England is in fact an English version of some types of Indian food which would be unrecognizable to the majority of the millions of people in that nation. Yes, but so what? My belly is still not convinced that real ale and curry are the best of companions, no matter how "authentic" it is).

I do love the spicy complexities, and subtleties, of Thai food and living in one of the least ethnically-diverse corners of the wild westcountry, it is always good to see and meet people from other countries and cultures. Unfortunately, we had already eaten, so did not sample the menu, although I am told by a reliable source it is good and also includes traditional English dishes, or examples of "fayre", as pubs will insist on calling them.

Apart from the Thai kitchen and bar staff, there were only four other punters and because the George is a big pub, it did feel a bit empty. I ordered a pint of the ubiquitous Tribute (very good) and we played a game of pool.

The George, an elegant inn which was built in 1929, has been recently refurbished. There are cushions on leathery sofas, a large screen showing sport, and those large-stems-in-vases things (you know, twigs and stuff) which seem so popular these days.

The bar room at the corner of the pub still has a pleasantly wooden old-fashioned feel, but there is a certain feeling of the place being modernised. I guess the pub is partly in line with the Victorian pub era, when homely chintz was the order of the day. I love those chaotic-looking Victorian pubs, with their collections of moths in frames and pictures of cricket players sporting handlebar moustaches; few of them have survived the corporate onslaught of the pubcos since the 1960s, even if bad facsimiles seem to be on every high street in the queendom. The men's lavs at the George, however, were pleasingly chipped and tatty, and very RED. I am disappointed to say there were plastic windowframes at the rear of the building.

Every now and then one of the Thai kitchen staff would emerge from the back room and anxiously check the football scores on the big screen. My friend sparked up a conversation; the chef didn't seem to speak much English but he knew which team he wanted to win (I'll give you a clue: they're from Manchester and they win everything).

While my friend and I were deciding once and for all that test cricket was the best sport because it is the most absurd sport, someone accidentally knocked over my friend's almost-full pint. The spiller apologised, not least for soaking me, but then did not offer to buy a replacement.

Now. I could write you 500 words on the finer details of pub culture and behaviour and the rights and wrongs of beer spillage, apologies, replacement pints and so on, but I always thought it was a given that you at least offer to buy a replacement, even if that offer is graciously refused.

But there was no offer. And that's just not cricket.

The George Hotel, Braunton

Adam's Ales rating: 3 out of 5

Drink this: Tribute