There’s a real possibility that BRAPA will complete Berkshire before me, and that won’t do at all.
Regular readers will know that Maidenhead isn’t high on my list of great towns, though it’s worth a trip to the Conservative Club if you’re an American tourist with too positive a view of our fair isle.
I’m looking forward to a return overnighter in Reading though, if only to get Christmas shopping out of the way in February.
My latest lone tick is bang in the middle of those two towns, in what looks a tiny village with three pubs.
The Cricketers is clearly the Littlewick Green local, and if western Maidenhead ever got any visitors they’d presumably spend their time watching their heroes take on the might of Chalfont St Giles XI, pint of Peroni in hand. I’ve no idea what happens if the ball hits the tree here.
This is a typical Bucks pub, somehow in Berks, and feels a million miles from the gastro efforts along the A4. The landlord is nearly old-school (a top retiredmartin compliment); the room lay-out isn’t. That table in front of mine was virtually touching the bar. Go to the back of the class if you didn’t spot that instantly.
It’s the sort of unfussy dining pub with proper fires you still find in rural Kent (burger under a tenner !), and like Shep Neame the Badger beers are a bit so-so. I think they always have been.
The thin glasses don’t help, I don’t understand the branding (what is First Call ?) and ale sales here take a back seat to coffee and coloured ciders. That said, the beer was cool, clear and clean-tasting on a Monday lunch time (NBSS 3).
I would love to have brought you some of the septuagenarian gossip drifting in from the dining room, but I wasn’t joining the ladies for lunch, and instead had the public to myself. Well, shared with the finest hits of Annie Lennox and Cliff Richard, anyway.
Five points for explaining todays post title. It’s nothing to do with Midsomer Murders.