Possibly undeserving of its own post, but unquestionably as attractive as any pub gracing a tin of Devon biscuits over the last 30 years, I finally made it into the Royal Oak, Winsford.
Readers of this blog, as opposed to the sensible folk who just look at the pictures, will remember the
Regal Tree Royal Oak as the place which let me down badly on opening hours in 2016, failing to tell me it was closing early when I asked when I might get a beer.
Not only was I the only customer under 70, I was possible the only one without a dukedom, and certainly the only drinker.
This appeared to be my best seating option.
Ideally I’d describe the waist-coated septuagenarians tucking into pheasant and beef Wellington, but actually the menu is pleasingly pubby, if not cheap.
My notes say “Anything else, Sir“, “Little Red Riding Hood” and “Find the garden and tip it on the posh flowers“.
But then something strange happened. Exposed to the fresh air, my Cotleigh dramatically improved, acquiring the richness and bite of a NBSS 3.5 beer.
Respite for the floral displays, a minor triumph for Winsford, but I will never be back.