retiredmartin

June 2024. Ampfield. Hampshire.

Just because I’m making such poor progress with the ticking doesn’t mean I’m not clocking up the miles.

This was the first leg our first long weekend of June (where’s my Summer gone, by the way),

popping on my parents before heading to the coast for Father-in-Law’s 86th birthday, present.

He’d wanted to see Romsey,

where he went to school in 1947, and picked the pub in Ampfield next door to his old home for lunch.

Sadly, the White Horse, next to the golf club with Flack Manor on cask, was far too posh for us,

with its classic car night and aspirational menu of “Slowly cooked Pork belly, black pudding & shallot “Bon Bons”, Dauphinoise potato, spring greens, apple gravy 18.95“.

But my lunch booking down the road was for 12:30, time for a quick half and, you never know, a highly speculative pre-emptive tick.

You’ll instantly recognise the type; half-timbered,

open fires,

garden overlooking the cricket pitch, décor unchanged since Dire Straits ruled the airwaves,

and, obviously, all tables set for dining.

At the bar, FIL (check Mumsnet for acronyms) responds to “How can I help you ?” with “I lived here in 1947…”, and I intervene to order the beers and my lime and soda.

FIL wants local beers like London Pride and Harvey’s , he gets a weird couple from Bury St Edmunds.

I mean, WHY ? I’m sure the Hardy & Hanson’s is still all the rage in North Notts, but why would you pick those two in Hampshire ?

BUT, and there’s always a BUT, they seemed pretty good, and as you’ll know I can tell these things from a single sip.

AND, and there’s always an AND, the local’s bar on the right looked incredibly cosy. If you ignore the chairs at the bar.

At the entrance, Mrs RM too great delight at seeing her maiden name prefacing the line “is a very scared”,

and so do I.