“Let’s keep these ******* (*)pubs ticked” said Mrs RM, in her defiant rather than angry tone, as we completed a round half dozen in Greater or Lesser Cheltenham.
In normal circumstances my first action now would be to refer to my copious and comic notes taken that night 12 days ago, but I deleted them off my phone, didn’t I ? Last time I did that I swore I would back up my scribbles, but I never learn.
But I can tell you the Plough (not that one) at Prestbury (not that one) is near the horsey racing place just north of the centre, in a village that considers itself too posh to be plain “Cheltenham” and lumped in the same GBG section as the Sandford Arms and that hideous Brewhouse & Kitchen (I know, hardly narrows it down).
And as I’ve stopped here twice in the last decade I’m convinced I probably did the Plough and omitted it off my spreadsheet but at least I have a spreadsheet unlike Duncan who has vellum and quill.
But I’d have remembered the Plough’s gorgeous garden, I think,
and it’s complex entrance and flagstones, but I don’t.
At the very point we arrive here;
I almost think we’re on for classic country pub status,
but the bar area, while not exactly “set for dining”, is carpeted and plain and the banter can best be summed up as “reserved”, like the tables. Mrs RM’s face says it all, though she was waiting for
Godot crisps by then.
Her only recollection is the clock in a bicycle, which I believe is a line from U2’s “Achtung Baby” album.
I agree with Mrs RM, that bicycle clock was the highlight, along with the inevitably cheerful young staff. It’s a pub for Sunday lunch and a pint of Spanish lager.
At the tiny bar, two “chaps” had not a clue what they wanted, and had clearly never been in a pub before, or perhaps that’s just how edge-of-Cotswolds folk are conditioned to behave.
Their excitement at a big brand “IPA” is as entirely expected as the fact they have no idea where Milton Keynes is. Some residents of MK don’t know where MK is, to be fair.
The beer from the barrel (Bath Gem I think) was average; I didn’t actually see another pint pulled while we were there. Kids, ALWAYS go for the crafty keg beer.
(*) = endless