Doyen of countless Good Pub Guides, Times Supplements and Pashmina Yearly editions over many decades, the Village Pub finally graces the only book that matters to tickers.
So at last I get a trip to the other Barnsley.
It’s pleasant, without being an essential stop for those touring the honeypots of north Swindon.
The Barnsley Tourist Office have kindly highlighted the giant potholes for which the village is internationally famous.
You should visit now before the potholes erode completely.
The curiously named Village Pub has the usual trad boozer affectations like signs saying “Rooms“, but I seriously doubt they still serve Prosecco out of this hatch.
This was the busiest “pub” I saw in the Cotswolds, packed midweek with retired gentlefolk.
Wealthy retirees don’t drink much, particularly at lunchtime, even with the soothing sound of Jeremy Vine to encourage them.
“Will you be dining with us, Sir”
“Just a drink please”
“Of course, Sir. No worries, Sir”
I waited and waited for the barman to get a break from taking complex bookings, then plumped for the HPA.
I kid you not, it took him five minutes and three goes to pull a half. The first attempt was 43% froth.
“Bit lively !”
“Yes sir. Would you like to pay now”
It was OK, as Wye Valley always are (NBSS 3). With one caveat.
An Italian couple joined me in the seats at the bar (the only place not taken by diners) and (eventually) had a half of Cotswold Lager.
It can’t have been much colder than my HPA.
And the Coopers isn’t in the Guide, folks.