An English Gastropub Explorer
Tuesday, March 4, 2008 | | |I am an hour north-west London, zipping along a country road when I stopped by a short hay wagon. There is no way to go, if I look like patches of golden hay rain on my hood of the car. Finally, the farmer turns, I punch the gas, and straw steals my car in a moment. That is the strange experience of modern England.
Map pressed against the steering wheel, I check the last miles townlet of Bledington. It consists of a small bridge, a flock of ducks disperse before my car, and exactly a commercial establishment, a famous gastropub called The Kings Head Inn.
Taste of England
Here is a sampling of the fabulous food and housing adorable award-winning writer Stephen Heuser discovered on his recent trip across England.
• Launch slideshow
RELATED ARTICLE
• Planning a Pub Crawl
In Britain in the pubs were closing their doors, victims of displacement and the chain of ownership, a handful are surviving, even flourishing, for processing in rural areas gastropubs, where a high-end restaurant is equipped a detonator with tradition and atmosphere of an old tavern. "Thirty years ago, you would have thought that staying in a pub was a bit grotty," said my cousin Catherine English when I told him I would stay anywhere but pubs for a week. Now she is jealous.
At the edge of a lush green village, the Kings Head has a quasi-virgin stone front and a strong slate roof tuft of foam. It seems to invite, without being picturesque two. I poke my head in the side door. There is a bar with comfortable benches along the wall, a dining room with chunky wooden chairs, a fireplace and large enough to house a family.
Behind the pub is a converted stable with houses, but I am staying in the oldest part, above the bar. A cheerful young woman leaves behind his desk, opens a small door on the opposite wall, ducks up a narrow staircase, and ushers me to a door propped open with stones.
The single chamber bears the signature of a 400-year-old building. The former looks a closet, bathroom sinks another. The only window, a tiny dormer, onto the green. My double bed is under a white canopy party. The bathroom, I note with joy, is modern, even a little luxury. (What neighbouring farmers are the "stimulation of the sea rocket body wash"?)
Across the floor, a voice floats sound of the pub below. I soon discover that belongs to Arthur, a white-bearded character who keeps cows and operates a cement mixer and is usually full of opinions. When I reach the bar, he crows that he has succeeded in doing something for the first time. "I just sent one of these texts," he said, waving a cell phone. "For me, granddaughter." At least three generations of inhabitants are of attraction for drinks or dinner, and Arthur knows the names of everyone - or at least every young woman.
It is late, so I take dinner at the bar. I order a pint of Hook Norton, a traditional beer made by a family owned a brewery a few miles away. The map covers the world - duck spring rolls, mint salsa - but I am sticking with the team. I start with a mackerel and then a pie plate of deviled lamb kidneys and a steak. Arthur I offer a kidney, which sparkle pinkly when I cut them, but he refused, preferring to describe in detail jubilant what it is like eating a portion of its bubbles.
onsidering its popularity, I thought that the Kings Head to feel close to the suburbs, renovated, inauthentic. That none of them. "I know better," said Arthur, the pub, but I find it difficult to imagine. After another pint, or maybe two, I'm up and leave the pub for a walk.
"See you here later?" I ask.
"I would not bet on it," said Arthur. "But I would not bet against it."
I reserved a room for the following night in a gastropub further north in the high country farmland of Herefordshire, so I can not linger. I climb a tower where William Morris lived once, take a lunch at local cheese, and to impromptu U-turn in a strong position to purchase three plums for 37 pence.
Map pressed against the steering wheel, I check the last miles townlet of Bledington. It consists of a small bridge, a flock of ducks disperse before my car, and exactly a commercial establishment, a famous gastropub called The Kings Head Inn.
Taste of England
Here is a sampling of the fabulous food and housing adorable award-winning writer Stephen Heuser discovered on his recent trip across England.
• Launch slideshow
RELATED ARTICLE
• Planning a Pub Crawl
In Britain in the pubs were closing their doors, victims of displacement and the chain of ownership, a handful are surviving, even flourishing, for processing in rural areas gastropubs, where a high-end restaurant is equipped a detonator with tradition and atmosphere of an old tavern. "Thirty years ago, you would have thought that staying in a pub was a bit grotty," said my cousin Catherine English when I told him I would stay anywhere but pubs for a week. Now she is jealous.
At the edge of a lush green village, the Kings Head has a quasi-virgin stone front and a strong slate roof tuft of foam. It seems to invite, without being picturesque two. I poke my head in the side door. There is a bar with comfortable benches along the wall, a dining room with chunky wooden chairs, a fireplace and large enough to house a family.
Behind the pub is a converted stable with houses, but I am staying in the oldest part, above the bar. A cheerful young woman leaves behind his desk, opens a small door on the opposite wall, ducks up a narrow staircase, and ushers me to a door propped open with stones.
The single chamber bears the signature of a 400-year-old building. The former looks a closet, bathroom sinks another. The only window, a tiny dormer, onto the green. My double bed is under a white canopy party. The bathroom, I note with joy, is modern, even a little luxury. (What neighbouring farmers are the "stimulation of the sea rocket body wash"?)
Across the floor, a voice floats sound of the pub below. I soon discover that belongs to Arthur, a white-bearded character who keeps cows and operates a cement mixer and is usually full of opinions. When I reach the bar, he crows that he has succeeded in doing something for the first time. "I just sent one of these texts," he said, waving a cell phone. "For me, granddaughter." At least three generations of inhabitants are of attraction for drinks or dinner, and Arthur knows the names of everyone - or at least every young woman.
It is late, so I take dinner at the bar. I order a pint of Hook Norton, a traditional beer made by a family owned a brewery a few miles away. The map covers the world - duck spring rolls, mint salsa - but I am sticking with the team. I start with a mackerel and then a pie plate of deviled lamb kidneys and a steak. Arthur I offer a kidney, which sparkle pinkly when I cut them, but he refused, preferring to describe in detail jubilant what it is like eating a portion of its bubbles.
onsidering its popularity, I thought that the Kings Head to feel close to the suburbs, renovated, inauthentic. That none of them. "I know better," said Arthur, the pub, but I find it difficult to imagine. After another pint, or maybe two, I'm up and leave the pub for a walk.
"See you here later?" I ask.
"I would not bet on it," said Arthur. "But I would not bet against it."
I reserved a room for the following night in a gastropub further north in the high country farmland of Herefordshire, so I can not linger. I climb a tower where William Morris lived once, take a lunch at local cheese, and to impromptu U-turn in a strong position to purchase three plums for 37 pence.
