9th March 2020
I’ve spent this morning hoovering my laptop keyboard, and am pleased to report the return of the letter “a”. The exercise also recovered half a pound of Scottish oats. It’s always the Scots.
No new counties completed in March yet, but plenty of opportunities in what we call the “sleepy counties” (but only after we’re safely out of them and never to their face).
Broadway in (just) Worcestershire is very Cotswolds, just far enough from the neighing crowds heading to Cheltenham.
Half the size of Waterbeach, one of the lesser known Cotswolds villages but deep in the heart of National Trust garden land.
One main street with no obvious shops except those selling Barbour, pashminas and banana bowls. Pauline will explain what a Banana Bowl is.
No obvious places to buy a cob, and five yards from Sue Parkinson’s “Lifestyle” shop you’re in open fields.
It took two minutes to walk the High Street, and not just because it was drizzling.
A small confession. I was here a year ago, having failed to cross-tick the new GBG and pink out the Crown & Trumpet, making an unnecessary return visit.
At the time I noted the Broadway Hotel with its 16th century timber, “Jockey’s bar” and brasserie and thought to myself;
“That’ll never get in the Beer Guide”
Lo, here it is in the Guide, a mere four years after winning the coveted Pub of the Season for Spring 2016. Even Shakespeare (if he existed) worked quicker.
Cotswolds pubs have the advantage that they’re ALWAYS open, as Costswold folk have nothing else to do except peer in shops and queue for a table.
It’s an impressive, high ceilnged place,
the sort that Coalville specialises in.
Lots of handpumps, like you expect in Guide pubs,
I take a seat by the fire, silently cursing the Mums and babies stopping my surreptitious snapping. There are more dogs than people; everyone greets Maggie.
“Victoria” plays; the Kinks not the Fall, of course.
The Hooky is very creamy, a decent NBSS 3 given everyone else is on Sauvignon and lager.
A young South African couple approach the bar.
“What lagers do you have ? Peroni ?”
The amiable barman (they always are in posh pubs) gives a conspiratorial spiel about the superiority of Moretti over Peroni that is the best example of upselling I’ve heard since McDonalds offered to supersize me. Heineken should be proud.
Two pints of Moretti were £10.90, before you ask.