Bookending the seasons in the beer garden at Pensford

It’s becoming a tradition that our first and last beer garden sessions of the year should happen at The Rising Sun in Pensford.

It’s not the best in the world but this St Austell pub in a village just outside Bristol does have three things going for it.

First, the Proper Job is always amazing. Or at least it seems so. It might taste that bit better because we’ve usually hiked across country and have made ourselves weary and thirsty before we drink it.

Secondly, there’s a bus stop right outside with a reliable service back to Bristol, even on a Sunday. So we get to have a proper country pub experience but can still be back in town quicker than from some of our more remote “every pub in Bristol” jaunts.

Thirdly, there’s the perfection of the beer garden itself.

Nestled in a crook of the narrow, fast-moving River Chew, it’s overlooked by a medieval church on one side, and a huge Victorian railway viaduct on the other. It has to be one of the most visually appealing beer gardens in the country.

We hadn’t set out to create a tradition. It’s more that there are lots of country walks that seem naturally to end in Pensford.

In the spring, it’s all about the isolated flowers, noticing the increased volume and density of birdsong, and watching for the identifiable leaves of wild garlic in patches of wet waterside woodland.

In autumn, it’s about supplementing our picnic with blackberries and apples along the way, and estimating what percentage of the leaves have turned to gold. How far away might winter be?

On this occasion, we simply walked out of our front door, out through inner city Bristol, then suburban Bristol, past bigger and bigger factory sports fields (Imperial Tobacco), and across commons, until the city finally ran out.

Then we tramped across muddy fields, nervously treading around horses, cows, and boggy patches  – until we were over the hills and far away.

The whole time, we were soaking up sunshine, and marveling at banks of daffodils on verges, in council car parks, on country lanes, and in villages like Norton Malreward.

The first sign that you’re approaching Pensford is the viaduct cutting across the landscape. We headed down the slope and beneath its giant arches, popping out in a lane behind the pub.

At the bar, in muddy boots, we were surrounded by people eating Sunday roasts – and people who hadn’t got the memo about pub food in 2025:

“Do you have a table for five for Sunday lunch?”

“Sorry, not without booking.”

“Can I just get a bowl of chips or a burger or something?”

“Sorry, not on Sunday.”

“Just a bowl of chips, though…?”

We wouldn’t have minded some food either, as it happens, but at least we weren’t naïve enough to expect to just turn up and get any.

Sitting on a slightly wobbly, slightly damp bench, we turned our faces to the sun and listened to the sound of running water, laughing children, and church bells ringing.

And we drank.

When you’ve not tasted St Austell Proper Job for a while you forget that it really is a punchy, flowery, bitter beer.

It too felt like a harbinger of the summer to come.