An uncle of mine back in the early 50s had come down from up north to tour the West Country. One hot and thirsty afternoon, he paused at a tiny wayside public house whose only beverage was scrumpy. He ordered a pint, and downed the delicious apple juice in short order, watched from the shadows by ancient locals with glittering eyes. Thanking the bar tender, he went back outside duly refreshed, remounted his bike and pedalled off. The following morning he awoke around dawn, lying in a roadside ditch, about twenty yards from the pub.
Had he known, the pub was probably one of those with a vat in an outhouse out the back into which a dead rat or a rotten leg of beef was suspended on a piece of string to encourage fermentation. . .