Just as a pretty girl makes one’s loins stir, and a lovely gun makes the trigger finger twitch, this article by Tom Parker-Bowles makes me want to sell everything I own and take a trip to Britishland, just to visit the pubs he talks about. I mean:
The 50 cosiest pubs in Britain. From roaring fires in winter to breathtaking riverside views and — of course — a fine selection of local ales on tap, the watering holes you’ll want to linger in
To my absolute chagrin, I haven’t been to any of them; although I would put some of my favorite pubs — e.g. The King’s Arms in All Cannings, Wilts. — against all of them.
And leaving The George Inn in Norton St. Philip off the list of West Country pubs is nothing short of a travesty.
Of the Haunch of Venison in Salisbury, or rather its omission, we shall not speak.
Frankly, I don’t care about the view in a pub — unless it’s that of a pretty barmaid — because I go to a pub to drink and make merry with friends and not to look out over a valley, a canal or the sea. Atmosphere is the thing, only in that it makes the merrymaking easier and me less likely to leave after only a cursory pint (it’s happened).
Also less important is the food; I look with alarm at some of Parker-Bowles’s choices (caramelized shallot and thyme tarte tatin — WTF is that?), when all I’m looking for is a decent fish & chips, a sausage roll or even just a toastie or cheese sarnie. (Fortunately, I see that Mr. Parker-Bowles dined mostly on good pub fare like toasties, stews and ox-tongue sandwiches. Attaboy.) Whatever. I don’t go to a pub to eat, FFS, I go there to carouse. Eating is best done in restaurants or at street stalls, where booze is the accompaniment rather than the raison d’être. Of “gastropubs” we shall not speak, either. (Okay, just one: I remember going to one such excrescence in London somewhere, and upon reading the menu that featured overpriced crap like “Sea salt & cracked black pepper squid, £28.75”, asked for a bag of potato crisps — to be met with a supercilious sneer and a “We don’t serve that kind of thing here” response. I left after drinking only half my pint of — mediocre — ale.)
Anyway, as I said at the start, I need to get over there and try some (all? ye gods) of these places out for myself.
(I know, I know: a half-pint? It was my “taster”, followed soon by a full pint, or maybe two. My memory is somewhat fuzzy, as often happens. That was at The Haunch.)
Also, I need to revisit some of my old haunts:
Let’s just hope they all survived Teh Covid.
But I sure as hell won’t be going to this foul place, and that’s for sure:
For nearly 200 years, the Stag Inn has been the beating heart of a tiny village. But a recent revamp has split opinion, with some welcoming the modernisation and others claiming its ‘spit and sawdust charm’ has been ruined by being turned into a trendy gastropub.
Critics say unacceptably avant garde measures at the drinking hole in West Acre, Norfolk, including graffiti in the toilets, an upmarket menu with options such as venison burgers, and garishly-coloured furniture have driven them away.
Me, too. No pics because ugh, as you will see if you dare to click on the link.
