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Pub #1100:

With 20 minutes to kill, I wandered Cirencester only to find myself in Somewhere Else. It has a history as a pub (the Three Compasses, I think) but now looks like the lobby of a Hotel Ibis near an airport in some town heavily damaged in WW2–very modern with very modern body builder waiters in tight outfits…you’d think you were in some yuppy part of Frankfurt or Hamburg if they didn’t speak with so much effort to disguise the West Country accents. Bless.

I had a pint of Amstel and watched many large glasses of wine pass by. Everyone in there looked like they would smell like money but I couldn’t work up the nerve to do the experiment (I mentioned the waiters that look like bouncers, right?). Still, it is comfortable if not exactly pub-like.

It was while logging this entry that I noticed this was pub #1100. I don’t consciously try to make the multiples of 100 something special (and when I do put forth the effort, tend to fail) but this really would never have made the short list on merits of what you find on the web. To be fair, I have done a lot worse on this long crawl.

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[*kpw = kebab per week for 2013, as noted in an earlier post and the 19th entry for the 2013 Challenge]

Floating with a couple of beers and on a tight schedule for the bus, I dashed from the Golden Farm back to the Best Kebab, which was near the Bee’s Knees from whence this journey commenced. I’m not sure if it really is the best in Cirencester although it may be the only kebab place here.

The sizes were small, medium, and large so I got the small which would have fed two hungry adults or served as a snack to six. My ears still ring with parental admonitions to eat every bite before me though so guilt gluttony kicked in and I shovelled it all down. Not that this was a chore as it was quite tasty, too; I would easily have finished a medium and probably would have picked at the remains of a large if not hospitalised with a distended stomach from the effort. The lettuce and cabbage were crispy and crunchy, and the tomatoes burst forth with flavour despite the spicy and heavily garlicked chilli sauce. Addictive.

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I tried to follow the trail from the Bee’s Knees: blobs of flour and ‘checks’ (circles where decoy trails go in alternate directions to the ‘true trail’); but, alas the markings seemed incomprehensible to me — local traditions are something you just have to learn through hard graft.  But, I eventually did come across the Golden Farm, an exceptional old inn near the River Churn; more over, they had a tasty beverage with a pump clip that looks just like Fat Chix, a nefarious Tucson hasher (in keeping with the theme, this was my choice of refreshment).

 

It is a huge house and quite old but one large back room is entirely dedicated to billiards (with full size tables) and some of the drinking tables serve double duty as drafts/chess boards.  There is a huge beer garden wrapping from the front around to the south side.

Perhaps that was an old trail as I never spotted any obvious hashers at the pub (although there were a lot of likely candidates for walking trails — short trails, certainly, but the fellows around the bar looked like a hint of beer and sweaty females on offer would be all the incentive needed). I may be underestimating the effect of inertia, though.

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An early afternoon trot around Cirencester is always a welcome thing, especially when you get dropped off nearly in front of a pub as welcoming as the Bee’s Knees.  Traditional architecture and hospitality but with a healthy dose of modern “sport bar” fixtures — there was sumo wrestling on tele! — combined for a good first impression.  I got an Arkell 3B and headed out to the smoking garden (since the other few early customers were all out there hacking up lungs).

The best thing of all, as I left for the start of the run there were blobs of flour at the door from which I inferred that a Hash House Harriers trail had been laid there recently; with any luck, it would lead me to another pub…which, eventually it did.

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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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Skirting Haley Wood from the Tunnel House but not really making out the site of the Roman Settlement, I was soon through Tarlton and heading back toward Kemble on a reasonably quiet one-lane, tree-lined road, perfect for running except that my feet were caked in mud and sheep shit.  Coming to a major crossroad a mile from Kemble I spotted the Thames Head Inn off to the left and popped in for a Wiltshire Gold.

The table nearest the door was occupied by these three old queens, landed gentry but absolutely screaming; I suspect it is overlooked around these parts the way every homophobe in South Carolina still votes for Lindsay Graham.  They were especially nice guys (unlike, I would imagine, our Senator Graham) and struck up a conversation with this old farmer near me at the bar.

His west country accent was as thick as the filth on my shoes and absolutely charming except that our conversation turned dark as he related the story of some young local just out of prison this week after serving half a three-year stint for vehicular homicide, killing his best friend while piss drunk.  Yikes.  I couldn’t linger anyway, but decided to pull up stakes as soon as the glass was dry.

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The Colesbourne Inn is no longer suitable as the 1000th Pub because it became the 952nd today.  I will update the 1000th announcement later tonight to reflect a new choice (the Bear Hotel in Devizes, most likely).  Oops.

The run went well from Cheltenham to Colesbourne despite the incessant rain and occasional trips into traffic.  Looking over the map I missed a few key sights, namely…

Itlay, which I believe is the Cotswold way of saying Italy (which I love).  Oh to summer in Roam, Nye Poles, or Cecily and enjoy a proper plate of deep-fried spagbol.

An indication of my late maturity is the fact that I didn’t make a beeline to Slutswell, nor did I try to loop past the Broadride (“you must be this tall to Ride the Broad” keeps ringing in my ears).  I did go past what I thought was Hummer Town only to be soundly disappointed.

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[Note: I got so wrapped up in the conversation here I forgot to do any photos…google is as responsible for this as I am.]

Pub #954:

Finishing my run from Cheltenham in Cirencester on Gloucester Road, I found the Nelson Inn Just off Trafalgar Road, of course.  This turned out to be one of my better finds in the last few months (beware, they are closed Wednesday and Thursday each week).

A couple of guys were in the small bar adjacent to the lounge and I wound up chatting with them until I was able to escape to change into my dry clothing.  One very funny guy and one that hardly said a word, they tipped me to a number of good pubs in the Forest of Dean (that may yet become the 1000th venue, as I’m not sure how long each subsequently announced pub will last on the list).  Beer was a Wickwar Bob and perfectly lovely.

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Pub #940:

Rumour has it the Marlborough Arms is haunted by multiple ghosts.  I can’t vouch for that but the price of a pint of lager is scary enough to keep me from returning.  They’ll never rid themselves of spirits with tariffs like this.

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Down a side street from the Talbot I spotted a pub sign and felt I should investigate; I found a friendly house known as the Oddfellows Arms tucked into the line of Cotswold block terraced houses.  It is a Hook Norton venue, as well, and I settled into a quiet pint of Hooky and a several weeks old copy of the magazine from the Independent Sunday edition.

The front is deceptively small and there is a fairly large enclosed garden area I spied on a walk around the space.  Fourth pub on this run and third in the last half mile, I decided to get in one more (only after at least one more mile, though) and headed on to explore the neighbourhood a little more.

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Not far from the Waggon and Horses, I encountered The Talbot which looked like what it is, a roadside inn with a bar.  The sign showed that there were no vacancies, but these bookings must have been phone- or internet-sourced as it would be hard to imagine anyone walking in and deciding this messy hovel with the angry staff was the sort of place to sleep, even with your clothes still on.

I was sweaty from the last few miles and headed toward one of the outdoor chairs scattered around the indoors and the barman said, “don’t sit on those in your state;” of course, he was right–the moist warmth of my shirt would have been a prime breeding ground for whatever fungus or bacterium they were propagating on the upholstery.  I stood near the dead bar and drank in silence.

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Leaving the Drillmans Arms lubricated and rested, I turned up the White Way and headed up the hill only to have a builder (taking a beer break with his dog) point out that it is too hot for running;  I stopped and said I was only going as far as the next pub and he said that it would be in North Cerney (about 4 miles away).  “I don’t want to go that far, what about this way?”  He gave me some directions to, first, the Drillman’s, which I told him had just closed, and then a couple of others, but since I wanted a couple of miles before stopping I made a loop that took me out onto a limited access dual carriageway.  Eventually, though, I found my way back to the Waggon and Horses.

The bartender was wrapped up in her puzzle and no one else was around, which seemed strange.  The place has quite a reputation for its Thai food so I thought at least one lingering (or malingering) customer would still be there.  Oh, well, I decided to Keep Calm and Carry On (by ordering a pint by that name).

Flipping through some photo books of Cirencester during the 1930’s and 40’s, the soundtrack bled through and I realised they had three CD’s alternating treating me to Howling Wolf, the Squeeze album out a couple of years ago, and an album of 50’s honky-tonk music by women singers.  Very nice.

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“Where’s your sign?” I asked while awaiting my pint.

“On the wall.”  “Blast, have they stolen it again?”  “Here’s a sign for you.”  “You found your way in here without one, didn’t you?” came four of the rapid fire remarks from along the bar.  There were others.  I do love a bar full of bored tossers waiting to mouth off at a stranger.  I’ll try to have an even stupider question for them next time.

On the way to the bus after, this begged to place hold for the missing signage:

 

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While looking for another bar, the Graze appeared less like a restaurant than either of the Golden Cross or the Fleece and yet it holds the most directly restaurant-like remit of the three.  Still as clean, bright and sterile within as you might expect for a modern restaurant, the prices don’t take the piss and as a Bath Ales house I was able to enjoy a Gem with a couple of locals heading out of town. The building exterior is fantastic, though, and reflects its proximity to the marvelous Church of St John the Baptist (which you really ought to go have a wander within before starting your own Cirencester pub crawl…details therein are better than the mosaics at the Corinium Museum and free, to boot).

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I ordered a Wainwright as the suited businessman arrived at the bar in the Fleece.  A charge of £3.80 came with the glass; “that’s a bit dear, isn’t it?” the businessman said as my first sip started…floral hops and light tannic astringence made me smile and reply, “yep, not worth it but not bad.”  He ordered one and some pork scratchings and was charged £6.50.  “You’re joking,” he frowned.  “Those hogs studied at Oxford, you know,” I tried to help.  Fleece, indeed…Fleeced is more like it.

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“As the planets form
That golden cross Lord
I’ll see you on
The holy cross roads”
–Strummer and the boys

From the narrow street, the Golden Cross appears to be an ancient house and seems to promise a dark and quirky interior (like the Black Horse, a block away, does).  Alas, the interior is thoroughly modern and the focus appears to be dining; but the honky-dread sporting bartendress and the manager had a great rapport and it was entertaining to watch this short woman stretch to reach the pint glasses on an overhead shelf.  She had the diction and accent of Zoe Wannamaker and an easy and natural laugh…if she wasn’t young enough to be my granddaughter I might be smitten.

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I chose a mild from the vast selection of ales at the Black Horse, another massive Cotswold stone pediment, and moved off to the lounge on the right side of the bar to put together a panorama shot without bothering the one other drinker in the bar to the left. Wrapped up in what I was doing I was startled when he sidled up and asked, “what are you doing.”
– “Sneaking around taking photographs, I reckon.”
– “Aahhh…what part of Canada are you from, then?”
– “Georgia, I’m an American, but thanks all the same.”
– “Bloody awful there, with all the murders.”
– “Yes. It is a little more dangerous there than here.”

He focused his inquiry a bit: “Those poor lads in Florida just wandered into the wrong place. How were they supposed to know?” Okay, that was what he was on about, the murders of James Kouzaris and James Cooper in some Sarasota public housing development.

The thing is, the narrative in the press has changed significantly. NOW, they wandered in and didn’t realise they had gotten into a rough area; this is prima facie bullshit because you can quite easily, piss drunk, recognise the difference between the good and dangerous parts of any American town. We always knew when the warm seasons were upon us in Atlanta because the gunfire got closer to the house.

The original story was that these guys were big fans of the Wire and wanted a little Wire-esque adventure, securing the tour guide services of their eventual murderer. Result. They didn’t deserve to die for their stupidity, and we all do stupid and irresponsible things because usually you can get away with it and then you have a fantastic story to tell (usually prefaced, in my case, with the words, “there was an incident…”). But, anything that can originate with, “Hey, dudes, watch THIS,” has the potential to go badly wrong. These fellows had the misfortune of putting an edge on the stories of the next fools.

I probably would have lingered and said all that over another fine ale, but I was on a schedule. Instead, all I got out was, “tourists need to realise the Projects aren’t a fucking cop-show-based theme park” and left for my bus.

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The Arkell’s site calls the Brewer’s Arms a thriving young people’s pub, but it seemed to be inhabited by aging and/or decrepit and quite drunk homosexuals when I visited. It is mildly shabby but quite comfortable and you probably would think you wandered into a gay bar (which it might not be). Nice place, though, and out on the porch a friendly and large lesbian couple chatted about the fantastic weather with me and this skinny old alcoholic that seemed obsessed with the loss of a light jacket perfect for this sort of turn of temperature.

They had my beloved Pilsner on tap, but I opted for the Carling to tick off another 100/100 locale.  Needs must.

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Finally returning to the pub crawl aspects of this site, I found myself wandering the streets of Cirencester too late for lunch but absolutely starving. Finally entering the massive Wheatsheaf I ordered a bag of crisps and a Hooky Dark and retired to the sunshine with my feast and the appropriately gigantic pub dog. The staff seemed worn out from a busy lunch and still had a large party going on in one of the many back dining areas so I think I chose my company wisely.

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A day spent inspecting Cirencester‘s old town hall/church, its architecture, and its antiquities (as Corinium it was the capitol of Roman Britain) was at an end but we had 45 minutes to wait on the bus back to Swindon…that’s when Jackie spotted the notice that Kate Loves Willy in front of the Bear.  She thought some wag had written this as a rude comment on the new Duchess of Cambridge’s amorous tastes but I knew it had to be a tasty beverage (and at least one of us was right).

It is a very old coahing inn but has something of a sports bar feel (except the soundtrack was entirely 70’s disco).  There are as many tables out front of the building as there are inside the long lounge and bar and earlier in the day it was probably warm enough to use these.  Instead, we chose a quiet area near a snug converted to a billiards closet and waited out the bus and the inevitable onset of hay fever from our garden walk in the Bathurst estate.