retiredmartin

February 2025. Chiddingstone Hoath. Kent.

You left us out in the gorgeous, straggly, villages west of Royal Tunbridge Wells, cheering up an octogenarian who’s not allowed out much except to have medical interventions and rehearse Handel’s “Messiah”.

My last commenter (commentator ?) writes “You should have walked 30 minutes along the road to The Rock, Martin – it’s been a pub since 1536. Also, usually 2 Larkins on – some of the best beer in The World, and the only brewery in the U.K. to only brew with it’s own hops – now there’s a CAMRA quiz night question.“

Funny you should say that.

We were always heading to The Rock, anyway. The in-laws loved it when Mrs RM took them out before Christmas, AND it opened at the civilised time of 11am for beer and crisps.

Kentish Paul works just up the road and has written extensively about the Rock, welcoming a recent extension of opening hours, and you’re better off searching his blog for pics of this wonderful pub, as mine will tend to be of toilet humour and boots.

I’d been before, obviously, it’s a GBG regular. But like a lot of rural Kent pubs I’d long forgotten the interior,

an absolute classic reminiscent of the Queen’s Head in Newton only with more Viz wallpaper.

The sausage rolls hadn’t turned up, so we decided to hang around for an hour for a light lunch and just, y’know, talk to each other. It’ll never catch on.

Muggins here was DES so Mrs RM got a pint of the Larkins Trad and Michael had Porter. I had a half to confirm the Larkins was drinking well, as you’d expect after it was vigorously pulled through at opening time.

Then we moved under the balls.

Yes, it’s Chiddingstone Real Football,

two teams of a hundred attempting to get a ball in goals a mile apart at the Rock and the Castle on Good Friday. A bit like the Uppies and Downies game in Workington with posher accents.

We were tempted by the trad game above our heads in the table by the fireplace,

but I don’t like being shown up by the wife in competitive sports like Ring the Bull.

Mrs RM and I did have a light lunch, soup and superlative Scotch egg; Michael and Margaret went the whole hog pig with some astonishing local sausage and mash.

And that, apart from a trip to the Gents, was that.

Except it wasn’t. What made The Rock really special was a landlady and a lad on his first day behind the bar who couldn’t have been more cheery and welcoming, particularly to our Old Folk (oh, that’s us).

If you want to see English pubs at their finest, come here.