I should firstly apologise to young Citra. My unplanned and unannounced drop-in to the foothills of Hook denied him the opportunity to join me in a spot of home-brew tipping. He didn’t miss much. Except for a rare outing for “Chiquitita” in a Hampshire gastropub.
By the same token, I failed to drop in on my Aunt-in-Law (if such a thing exists) who’s lived in Hook for decades, and might actually have enjoyed the Old House at Home. Last time we visited for her 70th birthday it was the Mill House, a Blubeckers pub that shortly after suffered the indignity of conversion to a Brunning & Price.
The approach to the suburb of Newnham takes you through that greenery we keep hearing has long gone in Middle England.
Yes folk, it’s Christmas lunch time.
Andwell competes with Doom Bar and a.n.o. for the attentions of the turkey munchers.
Though of course, it doesn’t. Pineapple juice, Prosecco and whatever passes for Peroni here.
The little bubbles probably tell you a lot.
Seats all taken by diners bar one, which a highly efficient Landlord shows me to. It’s the best seat in the house.
Posh people speaking loudly with long drawn-out words and reading out the whole menu takes some beating.
“We’re flying to Genoble for Crimble”
“We can carry on tal-king or we can order”
“Oooh, we’ve got THREE menus to choose from !”
The waiter brings a Christmas menu to squeals of delight.
“Now we’ve got FOUR”
“I’M having fish and chips. On-ly because it’s Friday”
“Are these local eggs ?” NO.
“Are they from Waitrose then. I’m not having Tesco eggs”
If only I was making it up, but you’ll know I’m really not.
The Andwell wasn’t off, but it was drab and undrinkable, and I spent a tricky ten minutes waiting for the barman to vacate the bar so I could sneak to the the Gents without being noticed.
And here’s the money shot. Well, a video, actually.