More pubs, more sights

Yesterday we drove to West Acre, a tiny town a few miles north of Swaffham. From what I could see the town consisted of the Stag pub (pictured above), a church and a few houses. Really, what else does a town need?



Decor inside the Stag can only be described as, "free coasters we've received from our beer suppliers". The bartender owns the place and lives upstairs in an unheated apartment with her husband. Parking is available in the back for cars... and horses. That center tap handle label is for Tydd Steam's Piston Bob Ale. I thought it was too bitter, Bob pronounced it great and had a second pint. I liked the Beartown Brewery Kodiak Gold (on the right) better. But sadly, I have yet to find any Stouts in an English pub this trip. The quest continues!



Once again, we consumed vast quantities of food. In a rare vote of vegetarian solidarity Bob ordered a cheddar and pickle sandwich so he could trade me for half of my roasted pepper and tart goat cheese sandwich. "Pickle" is commercially sold as Branston Pickle, a sweet, sour, chutney-like dark preserve. We have nothing like it in the US.

This is everyday, average "pub" food. It is so good it will make you weep with frustration at the mere thought of ever forcing down another mediocre meal at McFranchise.




After lunch back we drove back to Swaffham and I wandered around for a couple hours. Here is the Cornhall, where "corn" was traded in this historic market square. They didn't actually trade corn because corn is called maize here and is grown for animal feed. Rather, they call wheat "corn". Get it? I'm not sure I do. Pictured below, the sign on the side of this building describes "corn" as also being used for "social gatherings and entertainment". "Corn", an amazing combination of social and monetary capital.






Here's a shop sign you don't see too often in the States (above).




"The Red Lion pub is closed," Bob told me. I may have to test his theory later this week. Evidently they're serving drinks today, but I'm still stuffed from lunch.

We have now tried three of the six pubs in Swaffham: The George, The Horse and Groom and The Norfolk Hero ( which sports a hunk of copper from Nelson's "Victory" that I toured last trip to England. Nelson was a local boy and has pub, beers and hotels named after him.)

Swaffham pubs I still need to visit: The Greyhound, Red Lion and Lydney House (which elicits this reaction each time I mention it):



Truth be told, this is the face you see whenever a phone is in his hand.



Win tells me her garden has gone off. Uh-huh. This fuschia under her kitchen window has completely gone off, leaving only these pathetic blooms.

Tomorrow is a trip to the north coast. The forecast is sunny and warm. I'm packing two jackets, a raincoat and warm gloves.

The Cockley Cley marathon

Since the first time I came to England I've been lured by tiny signposts pointing off the pavement into fields and wooded tree tunnels. These narrow footpaths crisscross the countryside and on this trip I finally had the chance to heed their beckoning call. These "Public footpaths" surround Swaffham, and nearly every town in England. Our first day here we walked Kodi (an enormous and goofy golden (white haired)retriever) along narrow paths between fields and on converted railroad beds now overgrown with brambles, nettle, beech trees and pines. The brambles are especially nice, loaded with blackberries that Kodi and I hogged down as we walked. On my second walk I ate fewer and by my third day I didn't even want to look at the damn berries.


For some reason Bob was inspired to complete a pub-to-pub walk along these paths, so he planned a lunch with the family at a pub in the neighboring (neighbouring) town of Cockley Cley. All five of us crammed in Larry and Val's tiny rental car and drove three miles to the Twenty Church Wardens pub in Cockley Cley. The eponymous Twenty Church Wardens are, according to Bob, smoking pipes which are on display in the pub. No photo, sorry. I thought he was joking.

Bob orders beverages at the bar (Strongbow cider for me).

I ordered a vegetable omelet but the cook glared at me and said, "order from the menu". That was my cue this pub didn't cater to special orders. "Mushroom," I told her quickly.

Check out the "jacket and veg" served with the omelet. Jacket is especially good. I looked on the British Potato Variety Database to determine the variety of this particular jacket. That proved too complicated, so I asked Win instead. Her seed catalog produced photos and we decided by random guess this jacket potato is an "Estima". Smooth, buttery, sweet, rich. At the end of the meal, not a speck of food remained in sight.

Lunch and drinks for five people came to 40 pounds (about $65). Worth every penny, especially since I didn't have to pay. Rain was threatening so we donned raincoats and set off on the footpath with an excellent map scaled two inches to the mile.

Sadly, non of the footpaths followed a route directly to Swaffham, and we zigged and zagged for about an hour before we stopped for a snack at the local sugar beet pile.

At mile five, the windmills of Swaffham helped guide us home. Trusty Guide Bob used dead reckoing to second-guess the obvious. In this photo above, on the right is a recently harvested potato field. The green field on the left is parsnips! A drought has stunted the crops this year and these parsnips barely had roots forming. I predict rising prices in the parsnip market this Christmas.



Around the corner from the parsnips we caught a potato crop headed for market.


Fields here are loaded with flint. Houses and churches are built with it. You can't throw a stone without smacking a hunk of flint. This photo shows a field littered with flint (must be tough on the harvesting machinery) with my artistic arrangement of flint. The arrangement was Bob's idea. Don't ask me why, but we'd been walking for two hours at this point and we may have been weak with hunger and thirst.

I'm learning a great deal here. Sadly I have forgotten nearly all of it. One random tidbit worth mentioning, thanks to Win, is that wattle and daub describes an old way of plastering the interior of houses. The wattle are thin sticks and branches that are covered with plaster made of clay, mud and maybe some animal dung. Betcha didn't know that!

Stay tuned for my next lesson.