The Colesbourne Inn is no longer suitable as the 1000th Pub because it became the 952nd today. I will update the 1000th announcement later tonight to reflect a new choice (the Bear Hotel in Devizes, most likely). Oops.
The run went well from Cheltenham to Colesbourne despite the incessant rain and occasional trips into traffic. Looking over the map I missed a few key sights, namely…
Itlay, which I believe is the Cotswold way of saying Italy (which I love). Oh to summer in Roam, Nye Poles, or Cecily and enjoy a proper plate of deep-fried spagbol.
An indication of my late maturity is the fact that I didn’t make a beeline to Slutswell, nor did I try to loop past the Broadride (“you must be this tall to Ride the Broad” keeps ringing in my ears). I did go past what I thought was Hummer Town only to be soundly disappointed.
Crossing the flagstone floor into the Public Bar, I walked up between the stunned looking denizens of the Bathurst and ordered the house bitter then turned to the old guy at the end asking, “think it might rain?” I was sopping from the run in torrential downpour from the Colesbourne Inn and had left a spoor from the out to the in and further and the puddle gathering around me attracted the attention of the dog under the one table with chairs I probably wouldn’t ruin…I went and joined her.
Very nice crowd here in this ancient coaching inn and it really deserves a longer visit (the meals brought out to the couple that entered after me looked sumptuous). One guy at the bar managed to smoke a whole cigarette surreptitiously without leaving his stool; there’s a wine room, too.
One old dude went on and on about how some pal of his always has an excuse not to buy at the bar; when he mocked this fellow with a litodinous “my wife has hidden my wallet,” I must have channeled Fatty saying, a bit loudly and in the same faux voice, “every time I go out my wife hides all my condoms.” In the silence, I drank up and left.