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Just out on the highway down the Church Street from the Cross Keys sits the Bell Inn, ancient and furnished with, if modern, wooden tables that look worn with age.  It was also just across from my off-road trail so a perfect place to stop in for another quick one (slower and slower though these seemed to become).  I also intended to come in and ask why they had the Liberty Bell on the sign but it completely slipped my mind.

The Lilley’s apple/pear cider was a real delight.  Clear but with the colour of ripe and slightly oxidized pear meat, it had the acidity of cider apples and the sweet depth of a properly done-up peary.  Seek this out.

The sound track here was Mumford and Sons which bothered me because I thought it was just some R.E.M. I had missed along the way.  It finally dawned on me as I was leaving.

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The trip to the Cross Keys from the Red Lion was blessedly short if a bit muddy.  In fact, it was a bit too short as I arrived there 5 minutes before opening time.  I walked a bit of the village then came back when I knew I could enter, removed the muddy shoes, and ordered up a Thatcher’s Cheddar valley–an unusually dry and orange coloured cider with almost no sweetness and a bitter aftertaste of malic acid (quite a contrast to the bog-standard Thatcher’s I had just finished).

The house is old and serves as an inn more so than a pub (from the looks of things).  The kitchen appeared to be larger than the public bar and smelled wonderful (at least compared to my mud and cow shite coated shoes and, frankly, self).

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I thought the Red Lion would be open at 11 and so was disappointed to find the hours posted as 11:30 on a handwritten back of a cardboard box.  I had blown past a couple of pubs that WERE open thinking, hey, let’s get to the turnaround point on this trek then settle into drinking at every stop on the way back…since it looked like it was going to pour rain at any moment.  Best laid plans being what they are, I settled into some more of the Bob-fest on a picnic table and waited out the storm or the doors, whichever would be first.

Inside at last, the place filled quickly with diners and the professional wait staff were all a-flutter (some literally).  I took my Thatcher’s Cider to a quiet end of the bar and listened to the Sinatra they had on and rather enjoyed the surroundings for this little break.  Later, I would pay for the dalliance but overall it was worth the wait and the wet.

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*For my 6th birthday, grandma put a crisp dollar bill in a card and instructed me to go get something I really wanted.  The then 3-year-old release of Bringing It All Back Home was on sale at Woolworth for 99 cents, and I really wanted Maggie’s Farm; this amused mom no end as she thought I would by a model or a giant bag of army men.  For this year’s birthday run, 45 years hence (yeah, I am now 51 years old), I loaded a shitload of Dylan on my mp3 player and headed to Trowbridge.

The route was simple and not too much of it off the paved surfaces, as you might be able to tell better from this link http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=5951129 than from the copy of the above map. A hard rain was forecast but for those lucky enough not to be expecting rain it was still not dark yet (but it was getting there)…there’s three paraphrased Dylan quotes in one sentence for those keeping score.

“My names Danny, aged 45, looking for married or single ladies for discreet [sic] adult fun 07751-497085″

Don’t forget that the country code is 44 if you ladies seek to contact Danny.  This was sighted at the Swindon Bus Station.

The above bridge was between Woolverton and Rode or, more importantly, between the Red Lion and the Cross Keys. The one below is in Trowbridge where the stream is a little more decorative.

There wasn’t a lot of graffiti, surprisingly.  The one below, spotted on the way out of Trowbridge, was a brief amusement; however, it was time for my boot heels to be wandering.

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The previous post was better, but I wanted to showcase the screensavers pieced together by Squeezin’ (with my gratitude for these).  The pics, in order, are

Venue	Where	beer #
The Princess Hotel (done around 5 am New Year’s Day)	Swindon	1
The Bank House	Cheltenham	2
At the New Year’s Races in Cheltenham (watching my nag drag in)	Cheltenham	3
Midlands Hotel	Cheltenham	4
The Queen’s Tap	Swindon	5
The Four Candles	Oxford	6
The Turf Tavern (at the sign commemorating Clinton failing to inhale there)	Oxford	7
The White Horse	Oxford	8
O’Neill’s	Oxford	9
Ellington’s	Swindon	10
The Red Lion	Oxford	11
The Gloucester Arms	Oxford	12
Eurobar	Oxford	13
The Volunteer	Faringdon	14
The Red Lion	Faringdon	15
The Bell	Faringdon	16
The Lamb and Flag	Oxford	17
The Bird and Baby	Oxford	18
Far  The Madding Crowd	Oxford	19
Southbrook Inn	Swindon	20
The White Hart	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	21
The Red Lion	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	22
The Plough	Oxford	23
The Gardener’s Arms	Oxford	24
The Rose and Crown	Oxford	25
TP’s	Swindon	26
The De’s Cut	Oxford	27
The King and Queen	Longcot, Oxfordshire	28
The Woodman Inn	Fernham, Oxfordshire	29
The Eagle	Little Cocks Swell, Oxfordshire	30
The Wheatsheaf	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	31
Faringdon Folly	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	32
Salisbury Cathedral	Salisbury	33
The King’s Arms	Salisbury	34
The Old Castle Pub	Salisbury	35
The keep at Old Sarum	Salisbury	36
Wheatsheaf	Lower Woodford, Wiltshire	37
Bridge Inn	Upper Woodford, Wiltshire	38
Black Horse	Great Durnford, Wiltshire	39
Wilsford Cum Lake sign (heh, heh)	Wiltshire	40
Stonehenge (really a great disappointment)	Wiltshire	41
King’s Arms	Amesbury, Wiltshire	42
George Hotel	Amesbury, Wiltshire	43
New Inn	Amesbury, Wiltshire	44
The Greyhound	Amesbury, Wiltshire	45
Royal Oak	Oxford	46
The Red Lion	Marston, Oxfordshire	47
The Angel and Greyhound	Oxford	48
The University Club	Oxford	49
The GW Hotel	Swindon	50
Jude the Obscure	Oxford	51
The Victoria	Oxford	52
The Rickety Press	Oxford	53
Wahoo Sport Bar	Oxford	54
The Oxford Retreat	Oxford	55
The Grapes	Oxford	56
The Rolleston	Swindon	57
The Baker’s Arms	Swindon	58
The Dolphin	Swindon	59
Marsh Farm Hotel	Royal Wootton Bassett	60
The Cross Keys	Royal Wootton Bassett	61
The Old School	Oxford	62
The King’s Arms	Oxford	63
The Swan and Castle	Oxford	64
The Victoria Arms	Marston, Oxfordshire	65
The Black Swan	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	66
The Blue Boar	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	67
The Bowyer Arms	Radley, Oxfordshire	68
Zen Bar	Swindon	69
Sir Daniel Arms	Swindon	70
White Hart	Lyneham, Wiltshire	71
Sodom	Wiltshire	72
The Angel	Royal Wootton Bassett, Wiltshire	73
Cape of Good Hope	Oxford	74
Rudi’s	Swindon	75
Burn’s Day Lunch (Haggis, Neeps, Tatties, Whisky, and 2 beers)	Oxford	76
Swindon Wildcats 3, Sheffield Steeldogs 4 (SO)	Swindon	77
The Longwall	Oxford	78
The Royal George	Purton, Wiltshire	79
Riff’s Bar	Greatfield, Wiltshire	80
Magic Roundabout	Swindon	81
The Three Tuns	Wroughton	82
The Havana	Swindon	83
The Lydiard	Swindon	84
The Savoy	Swindon	85
The Brewer’s Arms	Cirencester	86
The White Horse	Woolstone	87
The College Farm	Watchfield	88
The Horse and Jockey	Ashton Keynes, Gloucestershire	89
The Vale Hotel	Cricklade	90
Goldfinger Tavern	Highworth, Wiltshire	91
The Red Lion	Northmoor, Oxfordshire	92
The Bell Inn	Standlake, Oxfordshire	93
The Maybush	Newbridge, Oxfordshire	94
The Beehive (this is about 100 yards from the house we are moving to)	Swindon	95
Baker Street	Swindon	96
Steam Railway Company Pub	Swindon	97
The Pig on the Hill	Swindon	98
Long’s Bar	Swindon	99
near Parliament, with a Cuban cigar and a bunch of dirty looks (and after 5 pub stops)	London Marathon	100
The Bear	Oxford	101
The Old Tom	Oxford	102
The Crown	Oxford	103
The Beehive	Carterton, Oxfordshire	104
The Crown Inn	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	105
Romany Inn	Bampton, Oxfordshire	106
Talbot Hotel	Bampton, Oxfordshire	107
The George Inn	Sandy Lane, Wiltshire	108
The White Hart	Calne, Wiltshire	109
The now defunct King George	Calne, Wiltshire	110
Barrington Arms	Shrivenham, Oxfordshire	111
Groves Company Inn	Swindon	112
Revolution	Swindon	113
The Plough	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	114
The George and Dragon	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	115
The Fish	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	116
Great Western Railway Staff Association	Didcot, Oxfordshire	117
The Prince of Wales	Didcot, Oxfordshire	118
Tap and Barrel (good read goes along with this pic)	Swindon	119
Old Town Festival	Swindon Town Gardens	120
Cock Inn	Combe, Oxfordshire	121
Three Horseshoes	Long Hanborough, Oxfordshire	122
Swindon Pride 2012	Swindon (duh)	123
Wernham Hogg’s	Slough, Berkshire	124
The Myrtle Grove	Risca, Gwent, Wales	125
The Sirhowy	Blackwood, Gwent, Wales	126
Railway Tavern	Sirhowy, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	127
The Castle	Bryn Serth, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	128
The Coach and Horses	Ashvale, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	129
Ye Olde Red Lion Hotel	Tredegar, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	130
The Tumble Inn	Pontypridd, Wales	131
The Maltster’s Arms	Pontypridd, Wales	132
Wyvern Theatre	Swindon	133
Byron’s Bar	Swindon	134
The Bear Hotel	Wantage, Oxfordshire	135
Source ot the River Thames	Kemble, Gloucestershire	136
Carpenter’s Arms	Lacock, Wiltshire	137
Mill House	Chippenham, Wiltshire	138
Sunny’s Pool Bar	Swindon	139
The Royal Oak	Marlborough, Wiltshire	140
The Lamb Inn	Marlborough, Wiltshire	141
The Crown	Marlborough, Wiltshire	142
IMS/TOF Mass Spectrometer	Oxford University	143
New Year’s Eve on Ferndale Road	Swindon	144

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We had an appointment with the UK Border Agency to get our new identification details taken (photo, prints and signature) and the nearest choices were Bristol and Oxford, but Bristol had a Christmas market and the (eternally open) St. Nicholas Market: a proper stall and flea market set up with one of the best record stalls this side of Groningen, NL and a very good used bookstore.  Wet and cold after the walk from the very derivative Christmas mart, we lingered until famished in the various stalls at St. Nicks (arriving via the legal office cloisters adjacent to the ancient courts in this fantastic city) but we couldn’t bear to eat in the freezing open air food court (there are great Italian, Indian, and pasty places all along the way between the two halls).  We headed out but the rain raged.

Fortunately, inside the market there stands an engaging old pub, the Crown.  They have an internet jukebox and when the crowd is hip the tunes are good and they ruled on the first half of our visit; then some guy about my age wearing a duster and an Aussie hat came in like he owned the place (you know this dickhead from your town: he bartends somewhere otherwise hip and spends his day smoking dope and hitting on young women–I recognise it because, painfully, this was me in my mid-20′s and, unfortunately, this guy was in his mid-30′s at the same time); we spent the rest of our Crown visit listening to five consecutive ACDC cuts and some German death rock filler.

There are several levels and the house is deceptively large (I brought this up to the bartender and he agreed adding that you get used to it after a while).  Apparently it was unexpectedly busy as they were out of chips, onion rings and only had enough curly fries to substitute those onto our burger orders.  Jackie had a wine and I  had a cider but there was enough Jägermeister to kill an invading army available.

Wednesday is a good time to be in this town…and, this is pretty close to the stations and a prime site for tourists so it is best to hit it in an off time. But, hit it.

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“That’s you, that is,” Jackie intoned at the sign for the Metropolitan, and I DO still seem like the hick coming to the big city; but this sign is even more familiar (see the sign for Jude the Obscure).  Regardless, we were easily the most cosmopolitan couple in the crowd of hayseeds squeezing through the stalls at the Bath Xmas Market.  Squeezed out of the shops like the last portion of toothpaste, we needed food and drink and we needed it now.

The front rooms of the Met were packed but we placed a food order and headed back to the rudimentary function room which was open to take in overflow customers since the England v All Blacks rugby match was soon to start.  The room wasn’t a great atmosphere but, then, the main bar and lounge were a little scruffy.  However the food was tasty and it and the drinks were cheap (unusual for Bath).

“How are you finding Bath?” the bartender asked.  ”A bit crowded,” I answered.  ”I know,” he offered, “full of bloody tourists.”  ”That’s you, that is,” I told Jackie.

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“It is our considered Judicial Opinion that Baby Got Back.”  Sign on building across from Bristol Crown Courts for a criminal court that no longer exists.

“All rise so the Court can check out your fine, fine behinds.”

“I like big butts, and I can not lie (because I’m under oath).”

There are probably more, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.

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Adjacent to the architecturally superb Bristol Temple Meads rail station (and surrounded by sympathetic buildings of decades and centuries past) sits a block of steel and glass monstrosities with the one barely redeeming factor: a Wetherspoons.  The Knights Templar has a little forecourt that is probably used for bare knuckle fisticuffs and the occasional glassing in the evenings, but if you approach your train from the north it gives you one last chance to sample one of 8-12 ales at a really cheap price.  You might be tempted to break a chair over one of the screaming brats outside, but on a day as warm and sunny as this everything seems as a god would have wanted it.  A god with no imagination, mind, but one of the pantheon.

This is pub #950 in the dash to 1000.  There may not be too many more this month, but I’m on a two week holiday in September where all I’m doing is running unfamiliar territory (with refreshment breaks, of course).  So, the next 50 will be labelled like this one is, with its position on the list of pubs.  If you have any suggestions for the 1000th, please post them in comments (I’ll probably move them to the comments at the original appeal, here).

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We were hunting charity shops (thrift stores, in American English) around the Bristol University neighbourhoods and found some crackers, but the sign to the White Bear drew me in.  I ordered a Hamm’s as a reference to the sign, and the guy behind the bar said, “oh, no, jeez, we don’t got that but we have these other beers, eh” in a perfect Canuck accent…he has probably suffered this bad joke before.

Excellent.  I had a Bristol Beer Factory Independence which is essentially Fat Tire made down the street from here, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  Later, I browsed the brewery website and they seem to use a lot of American hop varieties, which explains the US themed names (I had hoped for a second Jamaican Independence based brew, but that’s life, eh).

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Even just going to Europe you have to check in to the airport early these days, so once we dropped our luggage we had more than an hour to kill waiting for our plane.  ”Where’s the bar?” we both asked at once.  With an ale and several lagers on tap, I ordered a burger and pint special opting for Amstel to prepare myself for the trip.  An ugly open plan is counteracted by the vast seating area and surprisingly chipper bar staff (the barmaid we had chatted on for what seemed like hours about the camping trip to Zaandam she just returned from).

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Jackie and I went to this small backstreet boozer, third of its sort for me this day, the Coeur de Lion.  The bartender couldn’t possibly be old enough to run the place; in fact, you had to wonder why he wasn’t in school now that half-term was done, but there were others (the owner amongst them) to check in from time-to-time.  The music included Patsy Cline and Hank Williams senior which had a strange effect on the atmosphere.

There were four ales on, beautiful windows, and a cast iron stove to provide warmth.  I had a Sharps Cask Pilsner and she had a large wine.  We talked a bit about her meeting and what to do next and whiled away the better part of half an hour.  Delightful.

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The backstreet boozer, The Volunteer Rifleman’s Arms, was packed to the gills and they seem to dislike tourists.  Standing in the one open spot, somewhat near the narrow staircases up and down, I asked if there was any other seating.  ”There’s two seats down there.  The toilets.”

“Cool, is there anything to read?” The barman smirked a bit and some shifting went on, something of a natural movement, nothing caused by our exchange. He pointed at a table of 8 people crammed just at the end of the bar (this place is tiny); “they’re going soon,” he said.  ”To the toilet? Not really my business, nor yours if you don’t mind me saying.”  He spotted some cushion space near the window and directed me there.

I had just gotten settled when his head pops around the corner of the bar and startled me with, “alright, sir?” in the midst of a sip of my pint.  ”Not too bad,” I told him, “dry and warm and sitting with a pint…what’s not to like?”

Jackie called to say her appointment was finished about halfway through the pint and I picked up my things to go.  ”Leaving so soon, sir?”

“Yes, the woman calls so I must.”

“Pussywhipped, then?”

“Yessir,” I answered quickly then drained the rest in one.  This place is worth a visit.

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Just up the narrow street from Belushi’s sits the tiny, oak panelled Old Green Tree.  To get to the seating in the back would have required squeezing through the freak show standing around in the front of the bar so I just stayed put and listened to them.

This is a great, if tiny boozer.  I had a pint of RCH Pitchfork while my floor show consumed a variety of things…leaving many dishwasher loads in their wake.  Oh, there are four other ales on at any one time, mostly local.

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In Tucson, I used to have lunch at least once a week at Belushi’s, a crappy student oriented bar with pretty good burgers and cheap beer.  In Bath for the day, I spotted Belushi’s with an almost identical sign and went in to find a student oriented bar with cheap beer.  Dead in the middle of the day just like the one out in Arizona I don’t get the feeling I would fit in during the evenings (just like the one in Arizona).  Yummy, cold lager, though.  Just down the street, an ill placed fountain might tempt the less lubricatable.

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I spent many days in Griffin, Georgia in my youth (like most residents with any gumption I escaped as soon as possible…coincidentally spending a bit of time in Tombstone, Arizona as did more famous former Griffinite, Doc Holliday).  You might note that I didn’t say that I spent any pleasant time there.  Of all the things that I might be tempted to attribute the subsequent years of substance abuse and other inappropriate behaviour I shouldn’t be faulted if I ranked the oppressive boredom (or even just the oppression) of this town.

I spent a long, boring wait in the Griffin in Bath waiting for a salad and listening to the very self-satisfied screech of the upper-middle class twits (or is that twats?) that seemed to flow in like so much Bath spring water, freely effluent and steaming with its own self-importance.  The long wait was most likely due to the cook insisting that “pan seared tuna,” which most diners would expect to arrive, for instance, “pan seared” and pink (or even still red!) in the center should, alternatively, be cooked until dry and grey.  Surprisingly tasty in spite of this ridiculously overcooked fish, the salad might have been perfect had the sliced cucumbers on it been sliced all the way through and not just somewhat butterflied to the rind.  Amateurs, eh?

Five ales on tap, and they made the Good Beer Guide this year for their interesting selection of ales.  I can’t recommend the food or atmosphere, but at least it’s not Griffin.

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Ye Olde Shakedown might be a better name for Ye Olde Farmhouse.  Yeow! £9.20 for a pint of Wadworth and a vodka tonic.  We needed the rest after a day of sightseeing following Jackie’s job interview at Bath Spa University and my run through mud and pastures out on the Avon and around some small villages, and the pub appeared just above our planned turn-off toward the Royal Crescent.  But, Jesus, the prices.

We took the opportunity to drink in a bit of the atmosphere.  The pub was rebuilt from a much older house in the late 19th century and the lead framed art glass all around the bar and entrance and some of the bits of the lounge leading out to the garden date to that refurbishment.  Everyone seemed nice (as you would to tourists whose marked-up tipple was subsidizing your own), and the overall atmosphere was very copacetic.  It should definitely have ranked higher than the Griffin in the CAMRA Beer Guide.

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I’m posting this secure in the knowledge that afterwards I will no longer be welcome at the North Wilts Hash (albeit, this post demonstrates that perhaps no one is) or, much worse, I’ll receive numerous smarmy letters describing the heroic efforts it takes to administer the website and who-the-fuck-are-you, anyway.  Wee-ing on your party is not the intention. Sorry, in advance, but on the other hand it really isn’t that important, is it? Anyway:

There is no Plough Inn in Chiseldon and the nearest one isn’t where the North Wilts Hash published it on their website (note: Kitkat wrote to say they got 86′ed from the Plough and moved over to the Patriots at the last moment so even good info would have been bad).  There is a link for an information email address, but they didn’t answer a request for clarity vis :

SU: Plough Chiseldon hash start 18 Sept?

DA Saturday, 17 September, 2011 17:30

From: xx.xxxxxxxx@yahoo.com

To:info@nwh3.co.uk

Hiya,

I know you don’t answer emails and all that (shit, you barely bother to update the web calendar), but please make an exception this time as I am running to and from the start from Ferndale Road…

My query: Is the Plough near where it is marked on your map or is it actually the one in Marlborough Road a bit closer to Badbury (where the guy 4 times the legal driving limit drove into a bunch of parked cars after a shiteload of Guinness recently…justifying the name “Plow in”)?

Cheers.
drSR

———

Perhaps the tone caused offense and so no one deemed it worthy of an answer, but in July they didn’t even bother to list the location of the hash on the 24th (which I also sought info about)…I even checked a few minutes before the start time and still no listing:

SU: 24 july hash?

DA: Saturday, 23 July, 2011 22:03

From: xx.xxxxxxxx@yahoo.com

To: info@nwh3.co.uk

Where is the hash tomorrow (I’m not due at the Winehouse inquest before Wednesday, dontchaknow).

drSR

————-

Some kennels just don’t want new blood.  Kennet Valley HHH and Kennet and Avon HHH aren’t too far though, and there’s always Oxford.  I’ve been getting less-and-less out of hashing since moving to England, anyway…

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To get to the Chippenham Half Marathon on time, I had to catch a bus from Cardiff to Bristol and a train after that.  This left me a layover of an hour and fifteen minutes which I used wisely by going to the Commercial Rooms for a bit of fluid replacement and carbohydrates via a guest ale I didn’t have the presence of mind (or time) to note.

This is another of those cool Wetherspoons that occupies and preserves an historic or at least historically interesting building.  The Bristol Commercial Rooms retains a bit of the atmosphere of an old gentleman’s club while still serving the sort of crowd more suited to a modern “gentleman’s club.”  Except for some diners, I was the only customer in the place and pretty much ignored on this Sunday morning.

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The V-Shed is built into the docks a little south of the Commercial Rooms and is staffed by some relatively incompetent former Commercial Rooms employees (both are Wetherspoons pubs).  I ordered some beans on toast and had to repeat it three times and point to it on the menu and this still left them confused. I had to help them find the table number on their computer.  I ordered a Thatchers Old Rascal (a cloudy cider) and they searched around aimlessly for the pump that I was pointing at.  Finally, I was served with my pint and was taking my first sip when another guy came up and said, “hey, we can’t sell alcohol until 10.”  Snatching back my tenner and downing as much as I could (ie, most) I replied, “that’s a shame…cancel those beans.” I had a train to catch, and a race to run anyway.