Next stop, dunno. Si scoured his GBG, hideously desecrated with green marker, for pubs open now but shutting in the afternoon.
We bypassed the aptly named Blandford Forum, a real ale desert, on the way to Spetisbury.
I had no recollection whatsoever of the Woodpecker, and it hardly mattered as we’d missed it by a week.
Simon put on his best sad face and programmed Sat Nav lady for Stourpaine.
Helpfully, the pub has the village name in the car park, possibly stolen off the A350.
This is a hardworking place, feeling more like the other new breed of community pub that doubles up as village shop and micro pub for canines.
Getting hilly now, though well outside the honeypots of Cranborne Chase.
Grief, this one split opinion.
All the tables were set for dining, so we had to sit at the bar.
Far too many beers, too.
But since I was on the coffee by now it hardly mattered.
We felt quite at home, able to survey the dessert drama unfolding behind us (“Cheesecakegate” said Si), and getting healthy attention at the bar.
“Have you seen the giant spider ?” said our Landlady.
Spooky chimney apart, the White Horse had some good breweriana,
“Instant Cash Prizes”,
and an even better shop.
OK, it only sold one newspaper, but they’d just had a delivery of their famous pork and apple squealers and some home made cakes. I had to buy them, you know how I like to support micro shops.
Back at the bar, Si was talking cheese.
Local cheese, too. At conservative estimates, that slab would have lasted Si till Sixpenny Handley. The giant squealer made it till Child Okeford, our next stop.