My right foot started to cramp as I trotted into Wilburton and I used this as an excuse to stop in the King’s Head which, like the Cherry Tree in Haddenham, has lunchtime hours then is open again after 6 pm. Another very nice bar that appears to have a proper kitchen. The locals at the bar, one with a gigantic Alsatian, and the landlord didn’t seem to know what to make of the limping, sweaty American asking for a Thwaite’s, and kept up their conversation about Cameron’s dead baby and eyeing me suspiciously. I was in a hurry to hit the road, so after quaffing half the glass I hit the loo to make my escape a clean one.
The building looks like an old converted farm house but the inside is really lovely, all rich red woods and polished brass and tables ready for diners and drinkers. The doors remind me of our house doors down to the archaic latches. I don’t get the impression they see a lot of strangers.
I came back in to finish my glass, greeted the gigantic puppy, and said thanks. As I was refitting my headlamp, the publican asked where I was cycling to and I replied, “Running. Gotta get to Stretham and cook supper. Till next time….” They directed me out a hidden side door, “Running to Stretham? My word. This will save you a few yards, at least.” That, more than anything, recommends this pub for a return trip: they speak in Imperial units, not metric.