Archive for March 2012
Some beautiful weather broke through the clouds Friday afternoon (which is nice, as I’ve missed the fantastic weather all week save for a two-hour trip to Cirencester). Running from the Blowing Stone across some fields I could just make out the outline of the White Horse for which the next pub was named. The landlady greeted me with a friendly and quite hot Eastern European accent and apologised for not having the Arkell’s Pilsner. ”Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter, let’s just do a lager.”
On the way to the garden a 7-year-old backed into me and said, “I’ve lost my toof!” Great, that’s just what my reputation needs at this point, now I’m bludgeoning primary school kids. I looked at his dad as if to say, “I barely touched him, and he was looking at me funny, just asking for a slap, anyway.” The dad smiled at my pantomime and we had a nice chat in the sunlight about the perfect day it was turning out to be.
The White Horse is quite old and looks it but is also fantastically maintained. A bit pricy, it is well situated just a few miles from the A420 and directly in the shadow of the White Horse hill and worth the slight mark-up. It would have been worth a second beer but as this was my third on this run and I still had to make those miles to the A420 disappear I returned my glass and had a few final pleasantries with the staff. Wonderful.
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Sixteen minutes and a short hill climb from the Fox and Hounds I chanced upon the Blowing Stone Inn, housed in what appears to be a mid 20th Century schoolhouse. Oddly, every piece of wall art was related to fox-hunting while I saw no reference to such back a the previous pub.
I had a Ramsbury and eavesdropped on the conversation for awhile. This couldn’t last as the gregarious builders working on the crossword puzzle included me for one of the clues. ”Oi, mate. Seven letters for a anus act?”
“Bumming,” I replied and they looked puzzled first at me then at one another then at the barman then back to me.
The barman said, “Oh. I see. They said Anus, with a haitch.”
Oh. “Heinous. No, sorry, I’ll get me coat.”
Lovely house there. Blowing Stone is a rock that legend has it Alfred the Great used as a trumpet/klaxon to rally troops, and is somewhere near the pub. Next run through I’ll try to get a photo.
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“I often think that I would like
“To be the saddle on a bike.”
…John Betjeman, Poet Laureate
Four consecutive 14 hour days at the end of a project wrapped up with a few hours Friday helping the movers pack the Laser Loan Pool equipment then a crafty escape to the vale below the White Horse for a short run. Entering Uffington, I spotted the Fox and Hounds and soon found myself enjoying their house labeled Best Bitter.
My drinking buddy for the pint was blathering on about some diesel engine he rebuilt back in the 60′s and while it may have made no difference if I was there or not it would seem rude not to listen closely enough to nod in the right places or to grunt and wince as appropriate. Then, he said, “I have a joke of the day here. We all know Sanjeev the Indian wife beater who head butts his spouse every day at 6 on the dot.”
“We are fairly close to Fernham, aren’t we?” I asked.
“Roight. Just over there.”
“Thought so,” I said, draining the glass and heading out avoiding the direction he had just offered.
As I left, I spotted a Blue Plaque on the house across the street. Holy shit, that was Betjeman’s local. Wow, you never know, eh?
“Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!
“It isn’t fit for humans now,
“There isn’t grass to graze a cow.
“Swarm over, Death! “
…from “Slough” by Betjeman
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I chose a mild from the vast selection of ales at the Black Horse, another massive Cotswold stone pediment, and moved off to the lounge on the right side of the bar to put together a panorama shot without bothering the one other drinker in the bar to the left. Wrapped up in what I was doing I was startled when he sidled up and asked, “what are you doing.”
- “Sneaking around taking photographs, I reckon.”
- “Aahhh…what part of Canada are you from, then?”
- “Georgia, I’m an American, but thanks all the same.”
- “Bloody awful there, with all the murders.”
- “Yes. It is a little more dangerous there than here.”
He focused his inquiry a bit: “Those poor lads in Florida just wandered into the wrong place. How were they supposed to know?” Okay, that was what he was on about, the murders of James Kouzaris and James Cooper in some Sarasota public housing development.
The thing is, the narrative in the press has changed significantly. NOW, they wandered in and didn’t realise they had gotten into a rough area; this is prima facie bullshit because you can quite easily, piss drunk, recognise the difference between the good and dangerous parts of any American town. We always knew when the warm seasons were upon us in Atlanta because the gunfire got closer to the house.
The original story was that these guys were big fans of the Wire and wanted a little Wire-esque adventure, securing the tour guide services of their eventual murderer. Result. They didn’t deserve to die for their stupidity, and we all do stupid and irresponsible things because usually you can get away with it and then you have a fantastic story to tell (usually prefaced, in my case, with the words, “there was an incident…”). But, anything that can originate with, “Hey, dudes, watch THIS,” has the potential to go badly wrong. These fellows had the misfortune of putting an edge on the stories of the next fools.
I probably would have lingered and said all that over another fine ale, but I was on a schedule. Instead, all I got out was, “tourists need to realise the Projects aren’t a fucking cop-show-based theme park” and left for my bus.
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The Arkell’s site calls the Brewer’s Arms a thriving young people’s pub, but it seemed to be inhabited by aging and/or decrepit and quite drunk homosexuals when I visited. It is mildly shabby but quite comfortable and you probably would think you wandered into a gay bar (which it might not be). Nice place, though, and out on the porch a friendly and large lesbian couple chatted about the fantastic weather with me and this skinny old alcoholic that seemed obsessed with the loss of a light jacket perfect for this sort of turn of temperature.
They had my beloved Pilsner on tap, but I opted for the Carling to tick off another 100/100 locale. Needs must.
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Finally returning to the pub crawl aspects of this site, I found myself wandering the streets of Cirencester too late for lunch but absolutely starving. Finally entering the massive Wheatsheaf I ordered a bag of crisps and a Hooky Dark and retired to the sunshine with my feast and the appropriately gigantic pub dog. The staff seemed worn out from a busy lunch and still had a large party going on in one of the many back dining areas so I think I chose my company wisely.
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How many pickers does it take to change a light bulb?
Five. One to change it and four to shake their heads and mumble, “that ain’t the way Earl woulda done it.”
Here’s an obit: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/music-news/9172830/Country-singer-Earl-Scruggs-dies-aged-88.html
I’m going some place like THIS to mourn and drink some whiskey:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZp0UjL_Xhs
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It’s not sexist with that spelling (but it’s how bell ends interpret what others see clearly to be a ‘Comment’ box, bell ends like those that are so bent out of shape about the 165 words, mostly quite kind, in the sketch of the Woodman, indeed, please show us that you are a bunch of tits). Sexist might entail something like page 3 of the paper the Woodman’s manager enjoys:
I have added corrections, in red, suggested by Mark, another thoughtful reader and Wood/Man loyalist and this should ease the fears of white-on-white racism that seem to be so near and dear to these folks. I should point out that mentioning bad service and foreign nationality is observant, and that bad service DUE to foreign nationality is xenophobic but neither is racist. When I do bother with racism, I tend to get it right as in this poster for a hash I hared a few years back (look and learn fools):
Well attended by wetbacks, whiteys, black folk and red Indians
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Some folks never learn. If I were an athlete I would stretch but as a running enthusiast I skip it to my detriment. This time, as happens every 1-1½ years, I’ve got pressure on my Sciatic nerve causing continuous pain down my leg and muscle spasms in my lower back. I have prescribed beer, codeine and ibuprofen and some physical therapy all (or some) of which are helping and none of which are bad in their own right.
Even if I was running today it would be too far to pick up a new pub either from work or home. I have depleted the stock near either (Jackie wants to hit the Randolph with me, so that’s the glaring pin point in Oxford:
The markers are the pubs I know about that I haven't been to near work.
This is in stark comparison to the pubs I have been to near work:
Similarly in Swindon I have salted the earth for miles around:
The nearest one on this map to the house is the Black Horse in Wanborough which is currently closed but seeking a landlord
And, here is how I got to this sad state which I refer to as “Swin-Done”:
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“Food without wine is a corpse; wine without food is a ghost; united and well matched they are body and soul, living partners.” — André Simon (this is a continuation from the most recent wine post, Contemptible Scoundrels March 2012 C).
Amy taking the wine/corpse dichotomy to extremes
Using up some leftover roast chicken I opted for a stir fry, but decided to make homemade black bean sauce using fresh grated ginger, some dill pickle juice, a spoonful of garam masala (out of Chinese 5 Spice), enough cayenne to disperse an unruly mob, a can of rinsed black beans, and a half glass of dry white wine all heated at a low simmer while the veg and meat was prepped. The more you cook the more you would think nothing could surprise you by being better than packaged but I’ve had my belly-to-the-bench in the kitchen for roughly 40 years and I continue to amaze myself; this was really fantastic and the cheap bordeaux I picked up on the way home was perfect for it:
We drank the tailings of some bottles all weekend then had builders in replacing the bathroom through the middle of the week. We couldn’t decide what wine went best with feeling grubby (or, rather, we weren’t going to drink that stuff while we had perfectly good mouthwash and paint thinner in the house) so we had iced tea for a few days. On Thursday we had cleansing facilities again and I celebrated with burgers packed with bleu cheese (runny and stinky as I had been Tuesday and Wednesday), spring onions and mushrooms along with a side of corn-on-the-cob from Morocco. I bought a mixed box of 6 wines on the way home (slowly restocking the wine cellar) and tried one that was deeply discounted and that I had never heard of before ( a Côtes du Roussillon) which was fantastic. It may have just been the cheese or the high quality beef but every sip was a delight and a slightly different experience than the preceding one; on second thought, it could have just been rapidly oxidising but whatever the cause it was quite a treat:
The weather has been spectacular and Friday’s dictated a cookout. The venison was succulent and the sides lovely and the wine was complex and divine but so full of sulphites we both had severe allergic reactions and swore of it ever again (that’s too bad as it is one of Tesco’s cellar and thus is quite a bit cheaper than a similar Gigondas with a vineyard name):
What wine goes with a radical socialist newsletter? Red, of course, and the Piccini Memoro was also fantastic with a small roasted Gressingham duck.
The WFF line continues to impress on its own and with the sort of grubby food we fall back on when we have no imagination in the kitchen, this time beef burritos (filling cooked in beer with black beans) and a Cobieres:
Wines for 19 – 25 March were:
Prestige de Calvet Bordeaux
Palais des Anciens Cotes du Roussillon Villages
Gigondas from Tesco
Piccini Memoro
Wines from France Cobieres
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I hit pub #850, the Red Lion in Cricklade, at the start of run after the workmen finished fixing our bathroom (hopefully the shower doesn’t drain onto the kitchen floor anymore). This was a real tempting pub to linger in with its low timbers and game heads mounted on the walls and miscellaneous Cricklade and bar ephemera…and 10 good and varied ales on the pumps. Near the Thames Path, I will most definitely return for another (and longer) visit.
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“What contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?”
― W.C. Fields (his second appearance in the continuing wine reviews, with the most recent prior post here).
Since Tesco reduced the price of Linoti Pinot Grigio from £9.99 to £3.99, we have been cooking with it; but, it is actually a very nice, dry tipple and we have started into it as an apéritif or with a bit of Stilton. It is sharp like a cooking apple and a bit citric, lovely to braise a bit of pork or yourself and perfect to reduce for a sauce (or reducing yourself to “sauced”).
Famiglia Terraccio Chianti has something in the nose like retsina (a very pine-y or cedary whiff) but it tastes not at all like a retsina: dry and fruity from the mix of Sangiovese and Canaiola. The steak we paired it with was tender, rare, and fresh from the barbecue…the butcher had this big carcass on the block when I went last week and I got him to cut a piece 1½ inches thick and about the size of a Panama hat’s brim (this will be my breakfast sandwiches for a week, as well).
Pasta with sausages, fresh tomatoes, copious quantities of garlic, and parm-reg requires a decent but unchallenging red table wine. One of our standard choices (overpriced but frequently discounted) is Monte Nobile…you don’t need to save the lid to the bottle, it will be empty before the night is done:
The wife insists on some non-starchy veg at every meal but it is rare for us to have a completely vegetarian supper. For zuccanoes (zucchini/courgettes gutted then stuffed with onion, garlic, green spices, mushrooms, almonds and cheese) the wine of choice would have been a white bordeaux but as we are glutted with reds at present I grabbed the McGuigan’s for it’s chocolatey finish and berry front to wrap around the cheese and nuts of the squash. This worked surprisingly well:
Bryan, the butcher, changed his poultry and eggs supplier to a fantastic farm in Yorkshire. I bought one of the huge free-range chickens last week and prepped it for supper prior to leaving for my run on Mother’s Day (March 18 in UK). After washing and drying then salting the interior I cut the ends off a large lemon and poked a bunch of holes in the skin then inserted it in the bird; loosening the breast skin I stuffed that bit with some bacon (which they call ‘streaky’ bacon here to differentiate from what they call bacon and what the civilised world calls ‘Canadian bacon’) and vampire suppressing volumes of garlic. It turned out fantastic and was served with sweet potatoes and dressing made from leftover zuccanoe filling all complemented by a Brindisi. Yum.
Wines for 15 – 18 March were:
Linoti Pinot Grigio
Famiglia Terraccio Chianti
Monte Nobile Squinzano Riserva
McGuigan Grenache Shiraz Mourvedere
Unico Brindisi Riserva
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The White Horse looks to be a great little country pub. I arrived at the tail end of a run from the far side of the Marlborough Downs and the Mothers’ Day rush seemed mostly over but families were still trickling in. I spotted a stout from Wadworth Brewery (celebrating 125 years of the North Gate plant) on the pumps and jumped at the opportunity. Viscous, chocolatey and a delight, it was a real treat the ten minutes I had before I need to dash to the bus stop in the shadow of the eponymous real white horse of Winterbourne Bassett (sorry for the shit photo but the bus was bumpy and I didn’t really think to try a second shot):
It’s a small house, the way the bar and dining area are laid out, but the staff is lovely. I know it has a reputation for good, traditional meals and it is convenient off the A road (bus or drive) between Swindon and Avebury so there’s no reason to avoid it.
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I spotted the couple carrying the saddle and equine bondage gear and had a naughty chuckle at the unlikely prospect. Then, settled into the New Inn with my ale I overheard these words from the boisterous table of leather-clad middle-aged couples: “yes it’s like CBT but with a little more, erm, emphasis.” They definitely had my attention and some of what they seemed to think was going to go over the heads of the others in the bar (or not) was quite blue, indeed. What is it with these out-of-the-way country pubs in central Wiltshire that invites so much kink…I’m not complaining, mind you, just curious. I refer you, should you need to be reminded, to the little statues displayed in the front window of the Black Horse on my Stonehenge run.
Fetish folk aside, this is also a nice joint because it is small, friendly, reasonably priced, old, has a real fire, and somewhat grungy. I’d make sure you settled on a safe word before you start buying rounds, but tuck in.
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I caught the bus to Ogbourne St. Andrew for a run toward the range of villages just north of Avebury and spent a few moments making final plans in the Silks on the Downs. What could be a tolerably nice pub but which, instead, is so obviously a restaurant first-and-foremost presented itself to me at the start of a run along horse gallops in the Marlborough Downs. The situation was made all the more uncomfortable by this being the UK’s Mothers’ Day and every table being booked at almost every food centred pub in the country. Nevertheless, they had an apt variety of ales on (I had a Ramsbury Gold, which was a delight before heading out into the wind and mist) and for anyone planning a smash-and-grab robbery I should point out that there are quite a few bottles of Dom Perignon hanging above the bar-to-kitchen passageway (if you decide to leave me one for the tip-off somewhere out on trail, please don’t reference this incriminating note).
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The run was intended to be an 11 miler for the Black Horse and the Harrow in Wanborough, but I got lost right off the bat and, besides, the Black Horse is currently out-of-business. It was still a pretty run with a bit of a hill climb and a muddy but pleasant field crossing above the M4. Link to map, here:
The Harrow turned up at about the 10.5 mile mark (should’ve been about 6) and I was welcomed with a Ringwood Boondoggle ale, a strong blonde with a thick body. The place was fairly busy for a mid-Saturday afternoon, but the family running the inn couldn’t have been nicer.
A couple at the bar were talking down exercise and the way it does nothing to prolong your life: when your number’s up it is up. They also pointed out, in the course of things, that some folks live the most appallingly unhealthy existences and live forever. The woman turned toward where I was sitting and seemed embarrassed that there was someone who obviously had just been doing a bit of strenuous activity; I raised my glass and said, “some of each for me, please.” They changed the subject and spoke a bit quieter.
The inn is a big place looks to be approximately 18th-century (and very reminiscent of the house at Pump Lane, Stretham, also an 18th-centruy structure). Out on the edge of this village which is spoilt for choice, it is definitely worth a stop in for a look around (and the food looked fantastic, as well).
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Update: a work colleague pointed out this review on a rival site (I guess I showed up too early):
A few miles and worlds away from the Black Horse lies the Crown, an ancient building with a truly pleasant landlord. Some kids came in to buy candy and gum in the public bar across from where I was drinking my Ringwood Fortyniner. The guy asked, “and, how many are you today?” then actually topped up the bag from ten pieces to twelve so they could split the booty evenly amongst the six boys. Marvelous.
It was quiet, but it was early. This is a fantastic house and I would be so pleased– if this were my village –to be so blessed.
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You come to expect rude landlords and overpriced drink when you see a place like the Black Horse that screams (think, screams like a rubber-headed drag queen) ‘gastro-pub’:
But the overall impression I got was Basil Fawlty. The American that asked politely if the trail adjacent to the garden went to Marcham was treated as if he asked if he could take a shit on the bar (I wouldn’t ask, and with the way he bolted off to read his newspaper in the adjacent bar I wouldn’t have been spotted). However, when the three guys in ill-fitting OTR suits ask for their cheque, he all but licked their boots; the one paying read the bill: “Three new BUSINESSMEN exclamation point. Is that us?” “Oh, yessir, yessir indeed.” What a dick.
He also appears to stock the bar with booze from the off-license rather than pay Greene King’s vig on the bar bottles (note the labels on the Gordon’s from a bar supplier versus the upside-down labels from retail or that fell-off-a-truck or may well be counterfeit):
Normally this wouldn’t bother me, but I really dislike this sort of money-grubbing little lickspittle. Stop in and take a wee in the fireplace next time you pass through.
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“Dinner at the Huntercombes’ possessed only two dramatic features — the wine was a farce and the food a tragedy.” – Anthony Powell
{The second of the five-at-a-time wine articles, following up on March 2012 A.}
Duckling breasts fried quick in their own fat and some sautéed broccoli…simple and rustic like the Primitivo I picked up at the Sainsbury on the way home:
Palastri Primitivo has a daringly phallic bottle cap--takes some balls to slide this one down your throat
This Stone Road Shiraz/Grenache blend was meant for a barbecue but I returned home too late and we opted for the giant mess of Indian victuals. The wine was better suited to more subtle flavours but stood its ground and complemented every course.
On my return from a run through Wanborough I stopped by the Aldi to grab some of that delicious Clarke’s Bourbon, that’s Clarke’s: preventing snakebite for 146 years. The wine selection at Aldi is likewise Aldi-esque and I grabbed a bottle of Claret that had no vintner info on it at all, so it would probably go well with the barbequed pork roast I had planned (three hours slowly cooked in a humid barbie and coated frequently with a paste made from an onion, two limes, a head of garlic, and some turmeric and salt):
Any connoisseur can spout a litany of poetic terms for the nose, mouth, finish of the drink; it can be a bit pretentious and I won’t insult your attention with my own forays into the lyrical. But, I would like to highly recommend this precocious little appellation (a coy Cabernet Sauvignon) the next time you throw together a bit of Chinese or Indian, if only for the classy vessel it comes in:
With the comedy wines out-of-the-way, we grabbed a nice Malbec for some beef with courgettes and chips. Dark and rich with notes of blueberry while still astringent and slightly tannic this was a good purchase of an end-of-supply wine (another deep discount says we probably won’t see this one again):
Wines for 8 – March 2012 were:
Palastri Primitivo
Stone Road Shiraz Grenache
Claret from Aldi
Sainsbury’s Cabernet Sauvignon
La Patrie Cahors Malbec
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Across some marshland and a football pitch from the Cross Keys I came upon the Brewer’s Arms and decided that one more wouldn’t hurt. Another very friendly house and also another one focused more on food than drink it won me over by having the Arkell’s Czech-style Pilsner on tap. A chat with the landlady informed me another pub in the village has recently reopened and I can make one more trip out next weekend to hit it and the Black Horse up the hill. That should cover me for Wanborough visits until the beer race on the Spring bank holiday (a half pint at each of the 6 Wanborough pubs, at speed…I train all year for this sort of thing).
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How many pickers does it take to change a light bulb?
Five. One to change it and four to shake their heads and mumble, “that ain’t the way Earl woulda done it.”
Here’s an obit: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/music-news/9172830/Country-singer-Earl-Scruggs-dies-aged-88.html
I’m going some place like THIS to mourn and drink some whiskey:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZp0UjL_Xhs
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