Working through my One Drive revealed a few upsides to Lincolnshire I’d neglected to tell you about during my rant about “Gastropubisation“. Memory fades fast once you get north of 30.
Another contender for “Dick & Dave’s big Lincs Adventure” is the Durham Ox in Thimbleby, which is a decent name, but not a patch on nearby Ashby Puerorum.
A good walk west of Horncastle (20 minutes Mr RM, 40 minutes Mrs RM) brings you to the edge of the Wolds, though I guarantee you none of the gentlefolk there had earned their calories.
One chap at the bar, a dozen or so in three really attractive little rooms isn’t bad business for early April. Our barfly enquired where the guest (Magpie) came from, and I volunteered the city without embellishment, so as not to appear a beer twit. He blanked me.
The friendlier fella below had the run of the best room, overlooked by Sir Winston, so I left him/her to it. It wasn’t the only one with proper pub seating.
The mark of a good country pub is that you feel comfortable as a drinker, and I did here, with the added bonus of a good vantage point to watch the inevitable condiment/bill splitting/mispronunciation of Ashby Puerorum drama, but no such luck. There was more conspicuous munching than talking.
All I can tell you is that the Bateman XB was drinking well (NBSS 3.5), a first in some while, and the pub was as relaxing a place as you could wish.
But the music was wonderful. 1930s jazz and “California Dreaming”. Mama Cass would have eaten well here, but I was saving myself for pate man.