Yes, enough of the “better-than-expected” trendy café bars; it’s back to what makes Cheshire famous. Ancient gastropubs for retired gentlefolk in the middle of nowhere (well, far enough away from Crewe for comfort, anyway).
Before the Cheshire mafia start their abuse, Cheshire is an attractive county and if I was legally compelled to take my mum out for Sunday lunch I’d be happy to take her to the Dysart Arms in Bunbury. Talk about damning with faint praise.
Every B&P greets you with the same words, designed to somehow convince you this is the village boozer of old.
“First off, life revolves around the bar, so that’s where to head for drinks, menus and to find out where you’re sitting if you’ve booked.”
A bit like claiming B&P stands for Banter and Pints, rather than “Beryl & Peter”.
That said, there are folk at the bar as I attempt to get a pint.
It’s not the bloke blocking the handpumps that winds me up though (I can guess the beers), it’s the two dogs competing to lick my shoes.
And the relentless Ed Sheeran.
And the tennis talk.
And the dull, lifeless Weetwood (NBSS 2). As I’ve said before, the posh gastros may provide an outlet for the Cheshire micros but they do them (and the reputation of real ale) few favours if the beer is never tasted in sparkling condition.
The same story at Tilston, even closer to Wrexham and the joys of Malpas.
At least the Carden Arms is cosy, and rambling.
And had those Guest Gins us CAMRA folk love.
More micro stuff on the bar, at which you’ll see staff engaged in simultaneous taking of ordered from the Cholmondley-Warners for 7.30.
I take the only table without diners on it, and enjoyed perusing a collection of “The Countryman” stretching from 1947 to 1985. Nothing seemed to change except the colour of the staples.
You can guess what I thought of the beer. Thanks heavens for foliage.