The initial rush of Thanksgiving cooking done and the birds in a slow cooker (and the flu abated for the time being), I felt like I should take the opportunity to grab a run and headed out to Purton over some nicely wooded hills. You can avoid much of the ugly, suburban sections of Northwest Swindon with some careful planning and most of this trot was very pleasant indeed, especially the last quarter-mile or before the Angel, a nice old house just past the cloistered little path from the south.
As the first customer in, I got to look around a bit and chat with the manageress about the village and its rapidly dying pub culture. Turns out the Royal George recently re-opened but is struggling. This one was nice, with a line of airline-sized Jagermeister bottles incongruous with the ancient timbers holding the house up…or maybe it’s the Jager that’s keeping the roof up….