Archive for the ‘Cambridgeshire’ Tag
I couldn’t feel my toes; this wasn’t so much due to the cold (although that contributed) as it was the shriveled state they were in after an hour running in puddles and snow drifts (interrupted for half an hour to sit without drying in a pub along the way). I need a break and the White Hart looked inviting.
Once again, food seemed to be the object of this pub, although they were very friendly to the damp vagrant with the steaming head that came in for a Becks Vier (lager mood, and their ale selection was weak anyway).
The snow started again and I felt like I could relax, only having to catch the bus at my leisure in a short while but the bar was closing as it was the end of the lunch hours and I wound up having a short conversation about the relative virtues of turkey versus goose for Christmas. The bartender seemed to like turkey for its convenience and price but I countered that all you need is a cricket bat and a few slices of bread to drive the goose price much lower than market rates. The conversation became uneasy soon after that and I slipped off to change into my dry clothes and moved on to get a delicious doner kebab down the street.
Roughly a pound of lamb doner, a handfull of salad, some chilli sauce and a pita make a "small" doner kebab
The wind was to my back or to my left as I started first south then east through Godmanchester and then into the Hemingfords. Not a quarter mile out of the Market Inn, though, I was in a field that was under a couple of inches of water and the snow had started to fall as well. Shit. I should get about half the run done, I thought, then settle in someplace cozy for a warmer…yeah, that’s it.
3 out of 8 miles in this much water, another mile in deeper stuff...shit
The snow slowed a bit and I spotted the Axe and Compass in Hemingford Abbots and felt like the coincidence of half distance and coziness was too much to pass up and dragged my soaked and shivering self in for a beer.
Although it looked a proper bar, I got the distinct feeling that food was the big draw here with well dressed patrons enjoying mounds of very appetising fare. No worries, though, as the beer was especially tasty (Bateman’s seasonal Rosey Nosey, which tasted a bit like XXXB, but that’s alright as well).
I lingered a half hour and then the cook came out and told the barmaid it looked like a white Christmas was on its way, pointing out the window to the blizzard that had since settled in. I drank up and headed back out and in five minutes the snow was 2 inches deep (but by the time I reached St Ives via some more soggy sheep fields most of it had melted again).
Still not sure about the run in the cold and threatening snow after the bevvy in front of the Falcon I ducked into the Market Inn, a warm and very friendly pub down an alleyway nearby. Inside, I was able to peruse my map to decide on a route, have a nice chat with a middle aged couple about their daft antics whilst Christmas shopping over the years, and enjoyed a lovely Jingle Bellies ale (from Potbelly Brewery).
The pub is easy to get lost in, stitched together as it is from several 400-year-old cottages. And, it’s easy to stay in and stare out the stained glass panels in the windows and warm your feet by one of the fires. And, the barkeeper was all warm smiles and delightful.
The snow started as I finished the brew, but I hadn’t been out for a run in days (in bed with a fever and flu symptoms) so I decided to buck up and get out on my way. Very good pub, though, and they seemed to think I would be right back (and I will, just not so soon as they thought).
The Falcon looks fantastic. It is a little, narrow building on the Market Square in Huntingdon and I was really disappointed to see it closed. Fortunately I was able to get a lukewarm Carling at the post office and enjoy a pre-run beverage in the cold (’twas windy and 28 deg F/ -2 C). RIP
The Ozzy is now open days. The Christmas shoppers and seasonal office drinkers were too tempting and the bar has decided to tap this market. I stopped in with a half mile remaining to return to work from a cold and dreary run and was cheered to find the place open before 6 and even more cheered to find that it is as divey as it has always appeared. Only lagers and fizzy cider on tap that day but I spotted at least one ale pump and besides the Flying Pig is less than 5 meters away if you really want the ale.
On this visit, there was a pole and a fenny shooting snooker and the hungover bartender (from Essex or London, maybe) keeping the place tidy. A suit walked in with a Nigerian accent and downed a Stella in a little less than two minutes and still seemed to slip in some chat about the 2010 World Cup brackets.
I took a bit longer with my Fosters to let my body temperature cool a bit so my glasses would stop fogging up while reading the many humourous ‘Proud to be British’ flyers (“because it’s the only country where you can get a pizza delivered faster than an ambulance will arrive” was one of the reasons; I pointed this out and mentioned that while cabdriving in Atlanta I occasionally got calls to pick someone up going to the Emergency Room (that’s A&E, for you brits) at Grady Hospital because they lived in shitty neighbourhoods that ambulances normally would take their time to go to (and that about half the time these folks had severe lacerations or gunshot wounds). “Ah, yeah, but that’s America, innit?”
Another good reason to be British, I guess.
Pub #278:
The Rose looks like a roadhouse and I’ve passed it by on the bus and on runs a few times thinking it was close enough that I could just run down sometime at my leisure and have lunch. Now that I am close to relocating out of the area I decided to go ahead and tick this one off the list. I left the Tally Ho and nearly sprinted the remaing 3 miles in the waning sunlight to the Rose.
Sweaty, disheveled (as is my way) and out of breath, I was confronted by two doors; to the left was one marked Lounge and to the right Lounge and Restaurant. Not wanting to cause offense at what appeared on close inspection to be an upscale gastro pub, I opted for the Lounge, only, and found all the tables grouped to sit two parties of 6 women each. “Are you the stripper?” at least two of them shouted as I started to leave and try my luck on the other side. “I can be,” I answered to hoots but no serious offers of cash…hey, 20 quid is 20 quid, but I only wander around naked for free on my own terms.
The other side was huge and there were some actual drinkers in the bar, talking about diabetes treatment. I opted to enjoy an Aspall’s Cyder and read the local “what’s on” magazine. One of the drunks at the bar started hitting on the 19-year-old chef, and the former eastern block waitresses came to his rescue, telling the woman that he was young enough to be her son. I finished up and headed back out, stopping to tap on the window and wave to my fans.
I tried the Tally Ho in March while nursing a broken bone in my foot, but they wouldn’t let me bring in a sandwich even though the kitchen was closed down for repairs so I left for the Unicorn. Several times since I’ve tried to drink there on the return trip from a run but the door was locked (before 3pm, but maybe they close at 2?).
So I was happy and surprised to find the place open on the fine sunny afternoon we had Friday. I had some particularly long days this week and decided to cut out early for a run and found the place not only open but hopping, with 6 guys crowded around the bar, the cook wandering in and out (they have reopened the kitchen), and with a bunch of chinese snapping pictures and taking measurements (hopefully this doesn’t mean a conversion from bar to restaurant).
I enjoyed a Greene King 1209, a limited time brew celebrating the 800th anniversary of the founding of University of Cambridge and which tasted very similar to IPA. The bartender said they were trying to rid themselves of it as they had a seasonal ale for Christmas ready to go in the basement, hence the £2.00 price tag. Not one to complain, I relaxed near the jukebox and debated whether I should help the guy out who was searching for a Gwen Steffani song but getting no search results because he was spelling it Staffani. I split the difference and waited until I was ready to take up the trail again and only then tipped him off to his spelling problem.
Nostalgia night continued as I approached the Crown in the center of Littleport from the Black Horse by the river. There was the old beaten down car with the great bit of art deco design incorporated, like in almost every backyard at home in mid-Georgia:
There was the large strings of rudimentary Chistmas decor around town like Atlanta before the real estate boom. And, there were the butch-and-fem, large-and-skinny lesbian couple shooting pool like just about every bar in Virginia-Highlands (Atlanta).
Okay, the fat one might have been the skinny one’s little brother and they might both have been straight but I wanted to use the “rule of three’s” for a second post and continue the theme and if it means crowbarring those kids ambiguous genders into a sexuality that suits my purposes I think it wouldn’t be the first time.
I blame the furnishings. The bar has a real community vibe to it and the folks I met were very friendly. The furniture, though, seemed out of place. Mind you, it was nice enough and probably pretty expensive (it was sturdier than it looks), but it seemed more Ikea than the block walls and deep windows seemed to demand.
Now, this was strange. I wanted to put in 9 miles or so and decided to end up in Littleport because the bus from there stops about 50 meters from my house on its way south. The run was a bit tougher than I thought with the section from Prickwillow to Littleport over fairly uneven ground, and I was very thirsty and tired when I crossed the bridge at Sandhill and spotted the Black Horse.
Quite a bit of nostalgia in this run and the Black Horse provided a bit. First, the band they have scheduled puts me in the mind of home (that is, Athens Georgia circa 1990 or so), with their retro rocker looks and Confederate flag. The canal tie-up reminded me of home (that is, Amsterdam and the Dutch pubs along the canals that as many boaters frequented as cyclists). Then, the beer selection put me in the mind of home (that is, Tucson) and I couldn’t resist the temptation of a pint of Coors Light.
The pub is actually pretty nice and large enough to have a good turnout for the band. For me, though, it is a little out of the way and not necessarily what I hope to find for conversation and ale.
Cool misty afternoon after several days worth of giving hourlong presentations and 10 hour stretches of experimentation and lo-and-behold-what-the-hell I found that I had my first window of running opportunity of the week. Best to slip into some sweats and slip out the door before anyone can demand anything, eh?
The loop was a standard Chemistry-to-Trumpington-to-Byron’s Pool-to-Grantchester-and back via the meadows effort that felt especially good in the crisp, damp air and I was loathe to stop except that I noticed the Rupert Brooke was still open this late in the afternoon and felt the call of duty. I was rewarded with the strong smell of fry-fat and a very warm and humid old bar. A very large one at that and very welcoming. It seems geared toward food but has an interesting menu to back it up; there are also many bottles of very tempting scotch just more than an armslength away from the bar…but I opted for a Buffy’s Norwich Terrier, which didn’t seem to slow my pace but certainly added little to the running experience. The flavour, on the other hand, was superb if the beer was a bit soft (I wouldn’t have minded them passing this line through a sparkler).
I didn’t have the camera with me, so these are web photos in this post. Also on the web is this bit about the pub’s namesake, a renowned war poet these lines from whose work “The Old Vicarage, Grantchester,” inform the design of the pub sign:
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
The Blue Lion really looks like a furniture showroom from the outside, large and modern and commercial with a bunch of tall windows. Inside it looks more like a convalescent home dining room, which, as I discussed with the manager, is a shame because it has the potential to have a more cozy layout…it really isn’t that much different from the Unicorn in Trumpington save for the age of the buildings and the fireplaces at the older spot.
I don’t remember the guy’s name, but he was awfully nice the way people are when they have their enforced solitude happily interrupted by any other sentient being. He is part of a thriving profession, the pub landlords taken on by holding companies to keep a failing pub’s doors open until a buyer can be found or planning permission to raze the site can be garnered. This seems a sad life for guy moving to a nice location like this, performing hospice duties for a dying enterprise (I don’t want to be too hasty, but as I said, perhaps a little ungraciously to the barkeep, the place has the fetid stink of death about it).
So, if you find yourself travelling between Waterbeach and Newmarket or the Cambridge United football ground stop in and get a glass and some crisps and say hi for me.
Caught the pub just as it was closing down after lunch, but it was a very pretty three room traditional with low ceilings and a dark, warm ambience.
As I came in and proceded to sweat profusely from the run, the usual comments were made; you know, like “ooo, you wouldn’t catch me doin’ that” to which the natural (but withheld) reply would be “yes, I can see that you big fat fatty,” and “you look quite hot,” to which the natural reply would be, “why yes, thank you for noticing, darlin'” but which instead elicited a “you know it…it’s blistering hot out there,” because they do love to talk about the weather round these parts.
So, I finished my IPA quickly to beat the bell and went back out to the 5 degree C (41 F) drizzle and soldiered on.
The run from Littleport ended with me facing a 45 minute wait for my bus from Ely, so I trotted over to the Fountain which completes my dance card for Ely. I had avoided the place at night because there always seem to be some hoodlum kids hanging out on the green out front but I realise after visiting that these are probably posh kids escaped from the King’s School dormitories and no threat at all.
The young bartenders (perhaps a couple, perhaps the proprietors) were especially friendly to all and the place had a very nice vibe to it, like the folks in there may come out of their way to spend a little time in the joint even if they don’t especially fancy a drink. I, on the other hand, fancied a Budvar (the original Budweiser).
After changing into some dry clothes in the gents, I settled into the barber chair near the window and red the front section of the Gaurdian. The flow of conversation was animated in the groups of other customers and I listened in, but it was obvious that these conversations started weeks or even years ago and that points of reference necessary for admission were missing from my conversational pocketbook. Fair enough, I’ll be back.
As a starting point for a run from Littleport to Ely, the Plough and Harrow leaves a little to be desired sitting as it lies on a stretch of road entailing a couple of miles without pedestrian pavement. But, it seems like a fine place to lift a beer and that’s all I really stopped for.
On a Friday afternoon I expected it to be packed but there were no cars in the lot and only a large guy in cooking whites (who was enjoying a large glass of rosé behind the bar) to speak to, and even he didn’t want to chat. I wandered around a bit to survey the place, but the door to the garden was locked.
In the States I would assume a cavern like this would be a money laundering operation and that the large dude in butchers’ togs probably had done a big favour for a local hoodlum at some point to get this gig. But, what are the chances it would be the case here?
Funny thing about the garden being locked…a Beer In The Evening review also noted it was locked when the reviewer visited in September.
I couldn’t feel my toes; this wasn’t so much due to the cold (although that contributed) as it was the shriveled state they were in after an hour running in puddles and snow drifts (interrupted for half an hour to sit without drying in a pub along the way). I need a break and the White Hart looked inviting.
The Endless British Pub Crawl 