This morning I promised I’d be back at the Cuckoo in Alwalton to bring you HOT news from Tier 2.
And a few hours later, I was.
Oh, wrong entrance.
Sheffield Hatter asked about the flaking edifice along the wall. As you can see from the close-up, it’s actually the detail of the micro chip you’re injected with when you take the Pfizer vaccine (not to scale, obvs).
I hadn’t booked, I NEVER book, but 2pm on a wet Wednesday when the workers have headed back to Minerva Business Park (AB Agri, Data Interchange, GBG Ticking Supplies PLC) at a pub offering all day food seemed a safe bet.
Vintage Inns are the missing link between Chef & Brewer and Brunning & Price. I’ve only been to half a dozen ever, none in the Guide, though the (London) Colney Fox did a decent Bass before the Wicking Man made Bass fashionable again.
I can’t claim the Cuckoo was quite such a spiritual experience, but I felt glad to be there putting a tenner in the Mitchells & Butlers coffers. #SavePubCos.
There appeared to be two other tables occupied; an old couple lingering over fudge brownie and a surprise young couple complaining about the cold as they warmed up by the big fire (probably illegally). It was a bit cold, to be fair.
I was tucked out of the way of better-dressed diners, and brought a pint within two minutes.
“THAT’S not Doom Bar, you promised us Doom Bar” I hear you scream.
Britain’s favourite, so I was left with Purity Goose or IPA. Only on the way out did I discover it was Franciscan Well Chieftain IPA.
But I made the right choice, possibly the best Purity I’ve ever had. Cool, crisp 3.5+. Is this a second wave of “Great beer in the week Lockdown is lifted” ?
Certainly, a reminder that when foody venues stick to one or two beers and get a few retirees to drink it the results are better than you’d think. Get the Cuckoo in the GBG.
The service was cheery but “relaxed”; it took ages to get someone to come and take my compulsory order for some food I didn’t really want (I’d be eating later).
They didn’t have Scotch eggs on the menu either. A stodgy, carb-heavy fish finger sandwich was the cheapest thing on the lunch menu.
But I was happy.
The staff joked with each other in loveable Fen accents, gentlefolk made complex Christmas bookings, the Wi-Fi worked, and Fleet Foxes gave way to Courtney and Kurt and other kitsch indie aimed at Peterborough’s OAPs.
I did a bit more exploring down by the Nene.
but the most thrilling discovery was this abandoned Wotsits packet.
Could he ? Could Simon have passed this way on his epic Castor trip ?
Nah, probably not.