The PM show on Radio Four featured a story on the new James Bond movie with Bond drinking lager instead of a martini, shaken not stirred. A good sign as I was five minutes from the stop in Shrivenham closest to Ian Fleming’s grave in Sevenhampton and I decided to run there to see if there were any signs of him spinning therein. At the small church yard, I chatted with an old woman who turned out to be a family member of Fleming’s concerned about the colour of the stones scattered to help suppress weed growth; she spoke with that upper-class jaw paralysis that I think is supposed to be impressive and intimidating in equal measure but she was actually quite friendly and offered to let me help some delivery guys move a display case into the old chapel (they will house some medieval bibles that have been stored elsewhere). It was rainy, though, and I decided to press on.
The Goldfinger Tavern is not at all an upper-class pub but it IS a fantastic local. Despite the frankly hideous exterior (the 1970’s were atrocious) the barman was warmly welcoming and the place was packed with folks from the estate or on their way home but stopping off for a quick one and a chat. I, of course, had a lager.