On the way back home from Gosport I thought I’d stop in the Fox at Crawley (not that one) for a quick half.
Somewhere between Winchester and that national pub of the year at Wonston we all love, 10 minutes off the M3.
Look it up yourself, I’m typing this in a campervan parked up in a cattle market in Hawes.
The Fox is a gastropub for gentlefolk stockbrokers.
Open all hours, every day. At least before Covid.
Their Facebook page talked about “lunch” and “dinner” and bookings, so I phoned up and asked if they’d mind awfully if I popped by for a quick half, no need for a table etc etc.
“You’ll need to a book a table on line”
No I won’t.
Being posh, they were open to negotiation and I got away with giving my name and phone number to the
A barrier met me at the door. It would have been easier getting in to see Pablo Escobar. “There’s no bar” they said, pre-empting my move toward the bar.
I’m not complaining. They were lovely. They took Covid more seriously than our Government, they gave me a choice of tables in the light drizzle outside.
The Old Boy, my first post Covid, chatted about Saturday trade and arrows over beer and chips. He was a gem.
It took 15 minutes to get in, get seated, and get a beer. Hilariously a Swift One from Bowman.
Not bad, NBSS 3+, and pleasingly selected from a range of one.
3 minutes to drink it, 5 minutes to find someone to pay by card, then a funny little dance at the entrance to the Gents as Old Boy and I waited for a loo that was empty. The chap who left the sign on “engaged” was ostracised.
I went out the wrong door, the one that said “exit”.
Little more than a lovely hamlet, I stopped at the pond to admire the micropub in the lake.
“It’s a bit differently from Crawley” said oyr Alresford lycra man, confident in my hatred for Simon Calder’s hometown.
“I prefer the West Sussex one” I said. At least you can still get a quick half there.