retiredmartin

August 2023. Lodsworth, West Sussex.

Back from four days in Cranborne Chase where the internet is “intermittent to non-existent”, I’ve a few posts to catch up on from the end of August. The refunds due to my beloved Patronised readers who were guaranteed daily posts could bankrupt me.

Pints in the borderlands between Guildford and Chichester could bankrupt anyone.

And although the pubs in and around the the South Downs are undoubtedly gorgeously situated,

they’re often astonishing dreadful. I may have given a little whoop for joy when I noticed the Winterton Arms closed as we rode through Chiddingfold, which isn’t nice, as every pub loss is a huge blow to a dormitory village.

No more so than on Lodsworth (pop. 672, avg. age 67.2), one of the great English villages, with rolling hills, black and white houses, community shop, ancient church and monkey puzzle tree.

Or it was when the Hollist Arms was open. A classic upmarket rural pub with flat if apparently unloved Langham beer on my visit.

Back in 2017 there had been few takers for the lunches, and I’d wondered at the time where the custom was coming from in a village where the gentlefolk all seemed to be indoors, presumably watching Bargain Hunt and planning what to take for Fiona Bruce’s delight when the antiques experts come to Petworth Hall.

The new GBG entry is in a converted granary barn which also houses a lovely place selling Italian meals and baked goods. Frozen ones, so absolutely no use to us.

But the Langham Tap was selling beer, so that was useful to Mrs RM.

And it had a well-stocked toilet that would meet Blackpool Jane’s approval. And a wonderful young person who was the epitome of enthusiasm and cheerfulness and who insisted I go and see the Sheffield Steelers. So I was.

Their Best was fantastic; cool rich and tasty (NBSS 4). I’m afraid I’ve often used Langham (see also Andwell, and even Harvey’s) as an example of a well-made beer rarely tasted at its best as folk in country pubs like the idea of hand pumps more than the taste of real ale.

Mrs RM also made me buy a can of their strong beer (“Rocket Juice”) to stick in the campervan fridge. As you may have guessed, I never actually saw that one.