After work I decided to do the hill into Old Town but as I had never gone more than halfway up Drove Road before opted to use that as my starting route. Barely into the shallow part of the incline I spotted the Grove and thought it must be time for a break, so dropped in for a Carlsberg (no ales but the lager is all pretty cheap). I had a patent to read in my pack and spent the time trying to filter out the loud disco cover versions of pop songs of the past. No wonder this cavern was so empty…well, the lousy music AND the fact that it is a Harvester pub, more of a family restaurant than a drinking establishment. Oh well, the hill wasn’t going to come to me….
Archive for August 2011
The Grove, Swindon Leave a comment
The Crown, Devizes, Wiltshire 2 comments
A trip around private road bits surrounding the Devizes Castle grounds, then down for an out-and-back on the Kennet and Avon Canal and a bit more music and street performance gawking left us a bit thirsty before the bus ride back to Swindon so we popped into the Crown. An old building it is completely refurbished on the inside and looks more like an upscale home furnishings store than a pub except for the bar which drew us to itself forcefully.
The bartendress was quite flirty with the regulars other than the jaundiced wraith sitting with a coffee near us. He barely moved and I had suspected he might be some sort of movie prop or haunted house decoration until he asked for another coffee and turned toward the cricket match on the tele.
A really big house that rises in tiers back to a paved garden, it has the appearance of an old coaching inn except for that oppressively modern interior. Four ales on; all Wadworth, but there’s nothing wrong with that. And the drinks are reasonably priced, too.
The Black Swan, Devizes, Wiltshire 1 comment
In Devizes for a street festival that was incredibly crowded (Summer Bank Holiday, dontchaknow?), neither of us felt like eating street food nor standing around having to balance it while getting jostled. We went looking for a proper dining establishment and found something suitable in the Black Swan, which was nearly as crowded as the streets around the Market Square.
I had a Henry’s IPA (Wadworth has its brewery about 100 yards down the street) and a steak and ale pie while Jackie threw down on a cobb salad. The veg on the side was still firm which was surprising and welcome, and the gravy wasn’t salty (so I’m guessing Bisto isn’t the main ingredient). The bar and dining areas are pretty small, but this is mainly a hotel and besides there are about a thousand other pubs within walking distance; pleasant enough for an old bar and probably quite nice on a more normal day.
28 August 2011 Run For Heroes 5K (or more) 1 comment
It was just under four miles to the Hotel Mercure where the monthly Run For Heroes is staged, so I left the house at 9:30 to run to the registration table which was supposed to close at 10. I arrived three minutes late after I took a loop trail that is not on my Ordnance Survey map:
The race director, Mike Buss, is an affable guy and seemed pleased that someone bothered to run to the race clocking up nearly 50% more miles than the race itself. This is something he seemed familiar with as an ultramarathoner that cheerfully does similar all-night warm-ups to travel by foot to marathon starts. Mad, I think, quite mad.
Start line...with a more than manageble sized field
The race was touted as pancake flat and on good surface which I found true for about 75% of the route but there was this loop through a field that was lumpy and loaded with badger holes that was something of a struggle to keep pace on. From the start, the two guys that actually looked like runners shot away and I worked my way up to fourth place and locked onto the third place guy who seemed to have a comfortable 7:30 pace.
The long option, my pacer barely visible ahead
We left the field and headed off into a wooded network of hardpacked trails that were a welcome respite. The scenery was pleasant as the woods opened up regularly to show some of the gently undulating countryside but as we passed the 2 mile marker I realised that I must be a lot slower than I thought…we were 26 minutes into this thing! I decided to pick up the pace because I just didn’t have all day.
The last mile was odd. I passed loads of other runners but they must have shortcut the trail as I was now in third position. I spotted about a dozen folks standing around down at the finish and sped on to it and Mike called out 33:01. What the fuck? I thought, it is what it is but immediately chastised myself for thinking in cliché; two others I had been stratified with crossed the line and the race director started making apologies as someone had flipped one of the direction markers sending some of us on a loop of the field after the first kilometer. Ohhhhhh.
Detail from above map, just off the actual course
As much fun as it had been, I really wanted to grab a beer at the Wheatsheaf (the one I haven’t yet visited) so thanked the management and headed back onto the road. In the industrial estate along the way there is a long narrow fenced-in section of trail that made me feel even more discomfort than the now bleeding nipples.
Arriving at the Wheatsheaf at 11:40, I found that it opens at noon. Of course. Start the day getting lost on a straight trail, continue to get lost on a race course, and now the target of the series of runs doesn’t even open for another 20 minutes. I continued home and drank the last beer in the fridge.
Special reward for the extra miles...always carry moleskin
The Village Tavern, Toot Hill, Swindon 1 comment
The bartender at the Village Tavern had this whole Karen Allen thing going on: short, big smile, longish and curly brunette hair, and an aura that suggests if you were wrestling her and got a raging hard-on she’d be neither offended nor threatened (but probably amused and mostly disinterested unless it gave her the upper hand in the match). That last list item, by the way, is still on the table if she expresses any interest…some things never change, and hot Karen Allen lookalikes (or similar-to’s) have always been a weakness.
The house is truly huge and you can enter off several streets. Most of the folks were crowded around the bar most likely so that they didn’t diffuse into the cavernous rooms around it or into one of the nooks that while cozy could accommodate a dozen folks. There aren’t a lot of pubs around this estate, though, and I bet it gets packed most nights.
The beer selection is okay, for lager, and they have an ale pump but it has fallen into disuse. However, they DO stock real ale in the bottle and it seems a reasonable price. Regardless, this was a reasonable turnaround point for a short (5.1 mile) run.
The Jolly Postboys, Cowley, Oxfordshire Leave a comment
I feel compelled to say something nice about the Jolly Postboys although my initial impression of the publican was that she is a bit ditzy. To my credit, it was only after our initial miscommunication that I noted the hair colour or the spectacularly displayed body; not that I don’t have these prejudices about big boobed blonds, but this time it was a content-based misjudgment. I’ll leave it there.
The entrance and Lounge
This was my second attempt at the Postboys, having turned up at lunchtime yesterday to find that they open at 4 all week; so, I put off my lunchtime run until after work and headed over via the University Parks, South Park, and Florence Park. Exiting Florence Park, the pub is a block away in a quiet residential estate a bit nicer than most of the surrounding neighbourhoods. It looks like a 1930′s estate pub but the interior has a postwar feel to it…maybe a nice refurbishment happened because it is a gorgeous house inside with a lot of exposed lumber in the Public Bar to the right and tall windows in the more cozy Lounge to the left. My visit was only marred by the, erm, youthful choice of music (the kids that have assumed tenancy seem young if the girl I met is any indication), the absence of other drinkers (it was early evening), and the reversed clips on all three ale pumps.
The Public Bar
Oh, those things AND the surreal interrogation that occurred once she reappeared with a laptop pc. She asked if I was only taking pictures of this pub or pubs in general (à la this post). I directed the conversation, such as it was, toward the Nelson visit; she said she hasn’t been in and I said it was quite “special,” to which she said it must merit a second visit…spooky. I drank up and headed toward the Thames path to get back to the rail station.
Simon Fish and Chips, Cowley, Oxfordshire Leave a comment
The proprietress might be deranged or she might have bought into some self-loathing and outdated western stereotypes of what chinese people are like (and deranged). I answered that no, I don’t want chips when she first asked in a comically shrieking voice; so, imagine her surprise when I still didn’t want them the next eight times she hollered it over the counter (I was less than 2 feet away). Same with cutting it…for fuck’s sake it’s just a piece of cod, and I still have some teeth; quit insisting that you want to cut it for me. Then, it was very oily and too expensive on top of all the hassle. But “for ways that are dark and for tricks that are vain,”† I have to admit it was quite tasty.
† Apologies to Bret Harte’s estate, but the copyright on this has long since expired
The Original Swan, Cowley, Oxfordshire 1 comment
This was the Original Swan, apparently there to make all the mistakes so that the subsequent Imposter Swans might succeed. I ran back to it when I found that the Jolly Postboys doesn’t open until 4; I stopped and took the photographs displayed here and then headed in to be gruffly greeted.
“Why are you taking photographs?”
“Pardon?”
“What are you doing with THAT?” he continued, pointing menacingly toward my camera.
“Oh, I’m taking photographs.”
“Flowers?” At least I assumed it was a question, but it might have been some sort of Tourettes tick. Either way, it threw me, and I answered,
“No, it’s just a camera. Pint of 3B, please.”
“No, no, no. Are you taking photographs of my flowers?”
“No, just the pub.”
“What? You take photographs of pubs?”
“Oddly enough, yes. Lot’s of them,” and I slipped the blog calling card beneath the bar mat for someone to find later.
“And not flowers?”
“If there are flowers outside on the pub, they are probably in the photo.”
“I put them out there to make the place look nice.”
“I’m really not that observant. Maybe somebody nicked them,” I offered, unsure of my role in this conversation.
“They SHOULD make it look nice, I paid enough for them.”
I nodded and found a seat as he turned the Stone Roses up loud enough to put a head on the beer. I really needed to get back to the lab for a meet up with some facilities guys, so I finished up quickly and slipped back out into the daylight thinking that the place could really do with some flowers.
The William Morris, Cowley, Oxfordshire Leave a comment
“It’s damper than a heifer in heat,” was out of my mouth before I could think of something better, or at least ruder. You never have to wait long when you come indoors from a 30 minute run in the weather–even in the light mist we suffered this day–before someone says (regardless the number, size, or orientation of windows out of which they could look for the answer), “is it raining out?” I know I have at least one truly offensive retort within me; I shall work on that.
The William Morris is a Wetherspoons and not one of the cool ones built into a refurbished, built-for-other-purposes building but rather just a modern stainless and glass ‘spoons. That’s alright, though; the beer is cheap and there were five ales to choose from (Exmoor Silver Stallion, for me), and there are always drunken old guys for entertainment. The ones I sat near were on about how there is no Ministry of Peace, and the worldwide constant state of war and how it is all the Americans fault. At least they didn’t comment on the rain.
The Nelson, Cowley, Oxfordshire 1 comment
Rough and ready would seem to describe the Nelson, but it reminded me of bars I grew up in and around so they get points for nostalgia if nought else. They had IPA on tap (Greene King) but I ran quite a few hills up and down on the way over and even with the light rain and cool temperatures felt in a lager mood, so Fosters it was to be.
The customers in the house seemed a bit older and a bit less polished than you find around Oxford’s city centre and I really welcomed the change. The area I sat looks kitted out for karaoke, bands, or a dance floor and the house makes up for lack of style with space and comfort (the ugly couches in the front corner look especially comfortable. I definitely want to try this out on an evening sometime; an early evening, but an evening.
The Wheatsheaf, Swindon 1 comment
This isn’t the only Wheatsheaf in Swindon (link goes to this one) and in fact there is another one less than a mile away. This one sure is friendly, though, and family-friendly as well with lots of gobby kids running around barely under parental control (but all in good fun, mind you). It appears that a young couple are running this place and they seem to take an active interest in the lives of their regulars, drifting out and chatting with an obvious level of affection for their punters. This really makes you happy to see, and it’s probably why they were doing such a lively business so early on a Monday evening. I can think of more than one pub I’ve been to that could take some lessons from these guys.
It’s an Arkells house but they didn’t have the Pilsner on so I tried a smooth but didn’t particularly like it. It reminded me a bit too much of Tetley’s.
There was a collection of rugby tickets stuck above the bar which makes me wonder if you have to be actively a rugby fan to manage a pub named Wheatsheaf. I know the lovely landlady of the Wheatsheaf in Didcot is always banging on about rugby and it seems like I’ve seen rugby kit at other Wheaties. Hmmm…strange.
Off the Rails, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset Leave a comment
It is a small bar, but Off the Rails has everything you could ask of a local: good beer, friendly publican, a couple of good ciders and it’s right on public transport…literally on the platform of the rail station. We had twenty minutes until the train so I got a Rich’s Farmhouse Cider and settled in to a comfy corner to watch other travellers and folks that just popped over for some beverage and chat.
The left side of the room is fairly sterile which is probably good as that is the station buffet, but the right side with the bar is dark and full of character. The cider seemed watery with very little flavour other than a combination of pine resin and iodine, like cheap single malt, but its astringent quality made my teeth feel a bit cleaner than before I ordered it. But, the price couldn’t be beat, at £2.20 for the pint of swill it was cheaper than a similarly sized bottle of water back on the beach.
Tavern Inn The Town, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset Leave a comment
I read that the Tavern Inn (The Town) was once the Railway Arms or Railway Hotel or some such. It was the first proper looking pub we came to on our way to the station to make our way home, though, and that was good enough for me. I had a Bath Ale something-or-other and we attempted to sit on the front porch but every seat was occupied. Instead, we drank to the strains of late 60′s pop music and read posters for old acts (they have a replica of the gig poster for Hank Williams the night he expired as a passenger on the way). Far enough from the beach to pull it off, it appears to be a local’s bar although it has the potential to get packed if the town is crowded with us tourists. I’d go back sometime if, for god-knows-why, I ever found myself in Weston-super-Mare again.
Winston’s Fish Bar, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset Leave a comment
There must be a thousand fish bars on the waterfront in Weston-super-Mare. We chose a passable one at random. Jackie had a salmon salad (because a stomach full of rich and dodgy raw fish is just what you want on spinning amusement park rides) and I had plaice and chips, cancelling the halibut when I heard that it was the last bit of halibut in the kitchen (never knowingly eat fish that’s on a special, on a Monday, or the last in the fridge). I’ve had better, but the Fosters was cold.
Oh, kids eat free at Winston’s, so get there before the lunch rush. We escaped just before the screaming brats swarmed the place.
Carter’s Steam Fair Leave a comment
We chose Weston-super-Mare not for any of its charms as a seaside resort nor for the tacky club scene (a bit old for either of these). We came for Carter’s Steam Fair, a Victorian-to-early-20th-century carnival featured in a documentary we saw earlier in the summer. The fun fair moves around (they were in Marlborough when I did a run from there to Swindon last month), and has been holed up in Weston for several weeks now.
The rides were pretty cool, and scarier that modern ones. The swinging boats are powered by a steam engine that looks ready to explode; every time it rocked through its low point, the rods holding our boat to the pivot slapped disturbingly against the side of their mounts.
We went to a very entertaining sideshow complete with patter peppered with innuendo delivered by the monacalled Professor Voltini, a tuxedo wearing sword swallower who introduced Madame Electra. She stepped onto a platform which was then floated to several thousand volts (float in this case is an electrical term meaning the potential was raised). You could see a plasma form in light bulbs she held, and they used an arc from a brassière attachment to light some fireworks. Oooooooooooh….ahhhhhh. No photos allowed, alas.
The merry-go-rounds had ornate wooden horses and other seats. The more modern rides, though powered by electricity, were also indicative of times past and fun and scary. You know that there are more stringent health-and-safety controls in place and that the carnies that put this stuff up aren’t like the crack- and meth-heads that do it back home; but the engineer in you always appears when you see the adjacent car on, for instance, the Octopus is held on by a cotter pin.
We left bruised, battered, thirsty and hungry. Fortunately there were drinks available nearby and fried and battered delights a short stroll away.
The Beach at Weston-super-Mare, Somerset Leave a comment
We took a day trip to Weston-super-Mare to get away from the probable violence at the Swindon Town vs Oxford United football match. Bars were open at 9 am in Swindon, and our train arrived with a large number of large, thuggish looking United fans. Fortunately, this meant that there were tons of seats free once they finally ejaculated from the coaches. At my seat, the safety guide pamphlet showed what we should do if a rave should break out:
The beach is brackish and at a wide spot in the mouth of the River Severn. You can see Cardiff across the way and there are parts of Weston that are quite pretty. But, the sand is rich in clay deposited from the river resulting in muddy expanses at low tide. However, at high tide there are donkey rides and horse carts in which passengers zip along the beach at speeds rivaling the wind surfers and sand-kite-cart riders.
Wheeeeeeee!
The bar scene in the parts of town near the beach remind me a lot of the Florida Gulf Coast. This is not good, as those tend to cater to USNavy personnel; these look especially designed for stag nights and there is more than a hint of the sordid sorts of entertainment that in itself doesn’t bother me but almost always brings fights to the table.
.
Quick, driver...to the lap dance club!
Arthur Stanley Eddington, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset 1 comment
I had the humbling experience of stumbling upon the boyhood home of a god among men, Arthur Stanley Eddington. They say he used to kill crocodiles with his bare hands for sport. Women and men, alike, would disrobe and lay prostrate before him when he entered a room, submitting to his insatiable, varied and highly imaginative sexual appetites. He alone is responsible for the temperate climate of our beloved England. His passing was a blow from which the world is still reeling; it stunned the Axis powers into capitulation at the end of WWII but left the populace so devastated that we still toil to climb from the resulting chaos. I have it on good authority that he was a consummate gentleman, as well.
The plaque may be a bit hard to read on a small screen. Here is the relevant text:
“This house was the boyhood home of Arthur Stanley Eddington, one of the foremost scientists, not only of the 20th century, but of the entire history of the human species … {purple prose deleted in the interest of space} … making science more meaningful, not only to scientists, but to all rational and curious individuals. His achievements will radiate for the duration of the human species!” Note that the achievements ‘radiate’ and not ‘resonate.’ Woowheeee!
The Roaring Donkey, Swindon 3 comments
I left the Kings just as the bottom fell out of the clouds…it was absolutely pouring and my glasses were opaque with spray outside and steam closer to my eyes before I got a block away. I dove into the Roaring Donkey for shelter and a pint of Tribute.
The bartender looked similar to Billie Piper, only prettier. She also had proper rough bar help hands that made me feel girlish and wimpy when she handed back my change, so I stiffed her on the tip; that’ll teach her a lesson for being hot, working a hip job, and pointing out my sad case of “professor-hands.”
There is an upper bar through a window from the one I was in. A table full of folks nearby went through a couple rounds while I nursed my beverage awaiting clear skies; they spoke of their Wednesday evening bar, which I don’t remember the name of, but that they always come here for Thursday and Friday night. Good boys, them.
There’s music here sometimes, too. Friendly, funny bar. Glad I found it.
The Kings, Swindon 2 comments
I left the Goddard Arms and headed toward Victoria Road for the descent into the Town Centre to buy dinner wine but the Kings Hotel caught my eye and I decided that one more beer couldn’t hurt. In fact, it turned out, this was a very good decision on my part as I met the manager who sat with me the entire time chatting about pubs we know in common, other towns we like, and the launch (19th August 2011) of the new restaurant in the venue…the house still has that new car smell, or, at least fresh paint. If the food is as good as the attention to customers when the place is not even really properly open then this will be a dining experience not to miss.
Oh, and this was pub #670.
The Goddard Arms, Swindon 2 comments
With some dental surgery scheduled for Friday morning a final run before a recovery day was due, the rain be damned. I also figured that hopping off the bus a mile or so from the Worthington Inn would give me the chance to tick off pub #669 on the way but when I got there the place looked like the panel to the left, and not the one to the right like I had assumed it would:
With the Worthington not only closed but bulldozed and replaced with tract housing, I continued the run across town and up the hill to Old Town where I found my way to the Goddard Arms, The Kings, and the Roaring Donkey before heading down to pick up wine for supper:
So there I was, no shit, in the Goddard Arms and the place was much nicer than someone who had just climbed the hill in the rain and at pace, but the help couldn’t have been nicer and served me up a Wye Valley Butty Bach for a very good price. Noting all the appropriately dressed folk, I took up residence down the end of the enormous bar.
For a Thursday, the place was packed, but has a bit of a soulless feel to it. There were five ales on the pumps but there were also frequent posters plastered around this elegant room for kiddy drinks. That’s a shame.
