As you’ll know by now, I never miss a chance of squeezing a Skids song title in , even in an area as tranquil as Salisbury Plain. This is more “Out of Town” than “Sweet Suburbia“.
As I must have said before, I have a cousin in Pewsey, but as I’d already had my tea (chicken tikka bites and trail mix from the Co-Op in Shrewton) there was no need to call in at ten minutes notice.
“At last” you cry, a micro. Confusingly, The Shed didn’t use to be a shed.
My higher quality readers may recall a failed visit here a year ago, but that was before it got in the Beer Guide anyway.
This was an interesting experience. Two Old Boys at the bar, two Old Boys at the window table, four local beers. All your micro pub bingo clichés ticked. H*b** *u*.
Hoping for banter, I told the landlady I reckoned this was the smallest pub in the UK, and got into a fight over the dimensions at the Nutshell and how that Cleethorpes serving hatch isn’t a real pub. It ended amicably.
I asked for the local beer, always a daft question when they all are, and got a pint of that Ambush Stealth (“it is hazy, you know”) which was just about perfect.
But where do you sit ? And do you interrupt the conversation going on either side of you ? Micros can be scary places for folk who aren’t part of the drinking club.
But the banter to my right was marvellous, all about pulleys and handles and acetyline lamps, rather than Key Keg and C02, and I butted in to ask nosey questions about Pewsey pubs to my heart’s content.
And before Mudgie asked, there were two toilets. Two. It is possible.