Mrs RM had phoned the Spotted Dog in Penshurst to ask if we could leave our campervan in their car park overnight.
Well, you know my views on phoning pubs, it starts there and before you know it you’re asking for tasters.
No charge (and no facilities) but it’s only fair you use the pub, and luckily Mrs RM’s pick is a recent-ish GBG entry with Larkins and Harveys on the bar.
A weather-boarded wonder, though by 7pm the weather was taking a turn for the worse.
The front area had the heaters, but they were packed with the sort of youth that used to drive Mrs RM out here on Saturday nights from Tunbridge Wells in the ’80s. There was no plaque commemorating her visit, though.
So we had to go round the side to the rear garden, which sounded like a demotion.
I sneaked a look at the “rustic” bar and tight beer range.
“****” I said, admiring the unexpectedly glorious view,
and scaring a six year I’ll call Emily who was sitting on the steps. Sorry, Emily. You’ll hear far worse in Tonbridge.
We ordered fast, as the temperature dipped from mild to chilled in 30 minutes.
The table behind us were at the “merry” stage, and keen to tell us how good their food was, and how they like their steak “still mooing on the plate“.
We stuck to a few starters such as tikka bites and houmous which were as good as Mrs Moo promised.
Then the conversation quickly deteriorated into a debate about roadkill.
“This pigeon was doing 60 on the Chichester bypass, head stuck in the grill all the way to Bognor !“.
How I’ve missed pub conversation about roadkill. Mrs RM weighed in with her own reminiscences about the confusion arising between “peasants” and “pheasants” and her conviction that my (future) mother-in-law was a murderer.
Back in the campervan, Baa Baa Toure closed his ears and hid.