September 2026. Southborough. Kent.
Southborough lies betwixt Royal Tunbridge Wells and the more earthy Tonbridge, home to one of the UK’s top beer bloggers.
The views into the Weald of Kent from my in-laws house are indeed bucolic, but Southborough itself is a one street, traffic scarred town, rescued only by the rambling common and Meow’s Chinese takeaway.
“Your usual Meal for Three (feeds five) Mr Taylor” says Mrs Meow as I approach.
Such a shame about the few remaining pubs.
The Hand & Sceptre is a hotel bar,
the former Weavers escaped its stint as an Indian/Turkish restaurant by closing completely,
and the wreckage of the Bat & Ball awaits an actual wrecking ball.
Which leaves Shep’s Imperial, which I’ll admit has looked faintly glorious at dusk in years past.
Trips to the in-laws are no-longer accompanied by even a modest walk, so I scuttle down the lane for a quick pint of Masterbrew, fearing the worst.
It’s not a pub I’ve ever felt particularly comfortable in, all high tables and blokes at the bar, but the Masterbrew is unexpectedly…GOOD, despite the thin glass.
There’s a decent pizza trade, a TV for the football, “Same Old Song” and “Saturday’s Kids” the soundtrack,
but it’s not a pub for the loner, more one the blokes visit to escape wives and colleagues. Very Kent.
retiredmartin 