retiredmartin

August 2024. Tollard Royal. Cranborne Chase.

Lovers of tradition will be horrified to hear that I failed to visit Farmham’s Museum from the End of the Road festival this year, and you’ll know I’m a creature of tradition.

In truth, the pattern of visiting on Thursday while Mrs RM put the tent up had been halted in 2023 when we visited a day later to finally have lunch there, and the lack of local Sixpenny 6d after a Butcombe takeover felt like a kick in the teeth.

But the music on Saturday looked a little light, and while Mrs RM scoured the site for the best internet to buy Oasis tickets, James joined me on a wander.

For a few years I’d wondered about the other nearby pub, the once GBG King John in Tollard Royal, but with public footpaths suspended during the festival it looked a circuitous route via Farnham and the B3081, but let’s give it a go.

Ah, bucolic Britain in the fading light of Summer. A reminder of the glories of Cranborne Chase, a road once trod by kings (and BRAPA).

and although we passed within 10 yards of tents with Cornish flags on them, we hardly saw a soul on the 45 minute route.

Tollard Royal (pop.115) is NOT a hotbed of socialist radicalism, I wager, although the Buddha on the well is an interesting tough.

In fact, it’s hard to tell it apart from Farnham (Wilts), our normal pub trip.

Thatch, fruit, and ivy. And some motel accommodation for the musicians.

Oh. It’s Butcombe, again.

The nice landlord tells us that the upmarket pub chain that ran the King John and the Museum sold out to Butcombe, which is obviously pitching for the Brunning and Price crowd.

Individual toilet cubicles marked “M” and “F” (or possibly fillies, I wasn’t looking), and a £65 tasting menu.

But everyone arriving after our rapid burger and beer order looked like they could afford that, in fact James and I were the only ones not in waistcoats and jodphurs.

They had an OS extract on the bar, notionally so that you could take your dogs on to the Chase, but which suddenly revealed an exciting route home to the top of the festival site.

And after a quality burger (James scored it a 5) and adequate Butcombe (I scored it a 2.5),

we set off uphill behind the church of St Peter ad Vincula (great name), following a purposeful local out walking her dog.

And a mere 20 minutes later found ourselves at at the gate behind the comedy stage (why oh why is all modern comedy so rude), back from poshville to the real world.

Well, sort of.