Yes, still on Bucks, still banging on about barflies. This one has a cruel twist.
BRAPA finished Bucks last year, and has decided he’s not going back till he’s finished the Scottish Islands and Devon, sometime in 2041.
That means he’ll miss the joy of Fever-Tree Gastropubs like the Lowndes Arms, which looks like a suburb of Milton Keynes in the GBG. BUT IT ISN’T.
Whaddon is barely a village, but a pretty one in the eternal sunshine of our spotted minds. I’m spending too long in church graveyards at the moment, reading headstones.
The Lowndes is half-way to attractive, spoilt by banners and (much worse) “Bottomless Brunch” offers written on the walls. They don’t desecrate their black and white buildings in Herefordshire.
I enter to polite R’n’B and the unmistakable stench of Christmas. But does it feel like a Proper Pub inside ?
“Please take a blanket” is perhaps the most off-putting thing you can read in a pub, after “Ask for a taster“.
I mentally calculate I can bear to be in here for about seven minutes. I’m no BRAPA.
At the bar, a group of Fever-Tree folk, and obligatory scary dog, are bar-blocking, deciding whether they should sit down for their lunch or just stand there debating craft gin. I’m amazed they didn’t ask for tasters.
Then it happened.
“Move out the way, you’re stopping the Old Boy getting his beer”
I looked around for the old codger, then realised Leicester Tigers shirt man was talking about me !
It comes to us all, I guess.
I wish I could tell you the Tring beer was either nectar or nettles, but it was a cool and floral load of nothing (NBSS 2.5), and only took me six minutes to down.
Opposite me a chap was nursing an innocent smoothie (or perhaps it was guilty) and pummeling away on his laptop. Our “Fever-Tree Four” were still standing at the bar, debating where to sit.