retiredmartin

June 2023. Newmarket to Isleham.

Most weekends now are spent “home” in Waterbeach, waiting for Chung Hwa to open (16:30) and taking Dad out for lunch in exciting villages he sort of remembers and I’ve forgotten.

In Newmarket, we got to see the racehorses crossing the road, and I was surprised to learn my Dad has seem more horseracing than I have (zero).

A quick search reveals this is my first post on the home of racing since 2016, when I probably noted the number of jockeys in the Spoons, your best only bet for cask, unless Maltmeister is keeping the craft bars out of What Pub.

I thought Dad would enjoy some people watching, so we perched on the bench outside the Waggon & Horses and waited for something to happen.

I recall the Waggon being in the GBG 30 years ago when it was a Hogshead or similar with exciting foreign beers.

Today the cask range is defiantly Locale.

Plenty of 11am lager trade, and a fair bit of Full English and cup of tea business.

Two coffees seemed to cost a mere £3.30, and things weren’t much more expensive at Kitchen-and-things, which I suspect has been in that location since Dad played on Newmarket Town’s cabbage field of a pitch in the early ’60s.

While the coffees cooled we tried to identify the plane.

But failed. So thanks to James.

B25 Mitchell. Not an exact representation though! pic.twitter.com/uQ4N09JeiU

— James Chatwin (@34053) June 3, 2023

And to other for the deliberately wrong answers.

When you reach 87, or 58, you don’t actually need to buy ANYTHING. Except coffee and brunch. My Mum has taken to giving me Dad’s old clothes if I stand still long enough.

Brunch came at Isleham, after a crawl through the studs in the posh horse trainer village of Chippenham.

Isleham (pop. 2,378) isn’t posh, and feels end-of-the-line with the River Lark cutting it off from civilisation. Well, Mildenhall, anyway.

Three pubs though, and the Griffin and Merry Monk were in the GBG when BRAPA was in shorts.

The Monk (top) is a self-proclaimed restaurant now,

opening at 10:30 on Saturday to sell a superb brunch of Eggs Royale in a seat by the fireplace.

None of those nasty handpumps that “pubs” are expected to display, but pints of Curious ?, Adnams and Beavertown on keg, which would more than suit Mrs RM. We stuck to cranberry juice.

Dad, a big fan of salmon, said it was one of the best things he’d had, and I thought so too.

Just don’t let it spoil your Chinese tonight, eh, Dad ?