Archive for the ‘Buckinghamshire’ Tag

The Bull, Gerrard’s Cross, Buckinghamshire   Leave a comment


Pub #2130:

I found my way through the ancient lobby of the Bull and carefully weaved a path past taffeta dresses and mourning suits with lapel carnations. I was now another 1/2 mile farther along on the run from Hillingdon than I was during my pint stop at the now-much-more-modest-seeming Apple Tree.

“Wedding?” I asked without response. I tried again, “funeral?”

“What do you mean?” The bartender asked. I took my beer out to the far end of the expansive garden to minimise my offense to the celebrants/mourners.



Posted May 22, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Apple Tree, Gerrard’s Cross, Buckinghamshire   1 comment


Pub #2129:

I didn’t hold much hope for the Apple Tree based on its web focus on dining and, upon arrival, the decidedly upscale environs. But, as I dragged my sweaty ass up to the bar I realised that — at least late Friday afternoon — half the receipts are down to various members of the building trade.



I took a Doom Bar out to the shade of the eponym and surveyed the assembly. Yup. Mostly labourers and skilled tradesmen, a few locals in middle class drag, and a handful of Americans who I assume were in the area (Gerrard’s Cross is a few miles directly above Windsor) to watch the semi-successful actress marry the unemployed ex-squaddie who still lives in his mom’s house.


Posted May 22, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The White Hart, Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire   Leave a comment


Pub #2110:

A bleak couple of miles followed the stop at the Falcon; just outside the bucolic limits of Woodburn Moor the path followed the Motorway back into Beaconsfield. There were 3 or more pubs at the next roundabout but I was attracted to the sign for the White Hart but had to look around because the pub was across-and-down the street.



In the garden, twenty or so football fans interrupted each others’ conversations with some braggardly song or another which, after a bar or two, everyone else joined in.  Dickheads, I reckoned, and this was confirmed as I put on my headphones to leave when one of these assholes stood in my way and demanded if I was “red or blue.”

“Pardon me,” I asked while holding the right earbud an inch out of the canal.

“Are you,” he repeated, through clenched jaw while jabbing with a finger at the middle of my chest but not quite making contact, “red,” jab, “or,” jab, “blue?”

Smiling and re-fitting the earbud, I sang back, “She comes in colours everywhere.”  He stood his ground.  “She combs her hair.”  Still in my way, but when I went on a couple of his lieutenant dickheads joined me; “She’s like a raiiiiinnnnnnn-bow,” we sang in perfect dissonance.  I was actually listening to a documentary on the player about EU economic policy after Brexit, but no one needed to know that.  Nice boys, I hope they found the fight they were looking for.



The Falcon, Woodburn Moor, Buckinghamshire   1 comment


Pub #2109:

A very rural run followed the stop at the Royal Standard of England (see that post for typical roads).  Woodburn Moor, the bucolic little village on the outskirts of both Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, is kind of isolated from those marginally urban centres and the M40 (under which the run took me without molestation by high-speed vehicles like those passing above on the viaducts).  Not a hundred meters after the arched flyover {underpass}, my target, the Falcon, emerged.



I found the bar through the snake pit of rooms built of ancient and very dark timbers.  I put in my order and turned to find an Alaskan Malamute standing there the size of a small apartment building intent and on inspecting my crotch.  I lost my fist in a bale of hair that protected his throat from — if not my grip, then — a probing assessment of what it might take to disable this beast.

I looked up at the old biker on the other end of the leash and offered, “you oughta shear this one in this heat.”

We had a bit of a laugh and chatted a bit about a pub crawl he did in High Wycombe recently; in the interim, a woman approached the bar without either of us noticing until she asked for a pan of water for her dog.

“Yuh gotta dog wif ye?” asked my partner.  “If she’s small, this’un’ll eat ‘er.”

I smacked the husky on the side and touched glasses with him, retreating to the garden.




Oh, right, almost forgot.  I think this is a drag act or, if not, it should be (this is a 90’s USA reference, kids, ask someone middle-aged):



Posted April 25, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Royal Standard of England, Forty Green, Buckinghamshire   1 comment


Pub #2108:

From the Red Lion, it was an easy jog down to Forty Green.  My map showed the Royal Standard of England there but it didn’t indicate how rudimentary the roads would be.  In fact, besides map coordinates I knew nothing about the place.  Turns out it features in some movies (Hot Fuzz, for instance, so something I’ve actually seen).




It appears to be one of those hostelries that grew, room-by-room, over the centuries although I suspect most of the artefacts (nice touches though they are) date to about 50 years ago with a smattering of items from between the wars.



The landlord is classically rude and took an immediate dislike to my “Tax The Rich” shirt; his first chance to serve me at the rapidly backlogging bar he chose to tut and walk away while on the second opportunity he took the orders of the guy behind me.  He also kind of looked like the dickhead at the Black Horse, mentioned some years ago, now; I wonder….



His staff was attentive and courteous and one of them served me seconds after his bastard boss started trying to move me aside so the party he chose to serve could order a couple of Cokes and a bag of crisps.  I decided to try the garden with my Windsor & Eton Conquerer in hand.



I’ve been to two of the three pubs that claim to be the oldest in Britain (The Old Ferry Boat in Holywell and Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St Albans) but this is a nice technicality to throw in: “The Oldest Free House in England.”  I think you’ll find they were all freehouses in the olden days; the three actually oldest places must all be tied.

Certainly it is a registered property requiring onerous permissioning to do any sort of work on anything mentioned in the case for historic preservation.  That may be why the joints on the old — but not ancient — plumbing were leaking so copiously.



Lesbo couple left just ahead of me.  A kitchen staff member that was European but a darker European — Portuguese, maybe (?) — asked, “So, you are walking?”
“Normally we’d walk home but we left my car here overnight.”
“Last nnnnnniiiiiiiigggghhhhhht?????”  I have no idea why she drug the word ‘night’ out so long but it caused titters all around.
(I didn’t mean “titters” the way you swine think. It means laughing.  #stayingwoke)


Posted April 25, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Red Lion, Knotty Green, Buckinghamshire   Leave a comment


Pub #2107:

Jackie’s mom died Friday night and I wasn’t expecting further news until around 10 pm Saturday, UK time.  I couldn’t face the prospect of riding across Central London in the midst of tourist season and warm weather to get someplace new and/or interesting to run in THAT direction; instead, I opted to go for a run around Beaconsfield and environs (10 or 12 miles NW of here).



The Red Lion was the first stop about a mile north of the station.  It’s quiet at noon on a Saturday, but friendly enough.  It’s been declared an Asset of Community Value and recently beat back plans to develop the property for some other use (The Bucks Free Press is a bit free of specifics).



Posted April 24, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Chequers, Amersham, Buckinghamshire   Leave a comment

Pub #2089:

It wasn’t raining hard nor was I running especially vigorously, but I was sweating like a pig.  A long, steep hill lay between me and Amersham Station and my 2nd pub stop yielded none but liquid and spiritual sustenance.  Just beyond my turn up the incline lay my last hope, the Chequers.  I went in and found the house packed for the Liverpool v Man City Champions League match.

I ordered a hamburger and took up residence near some old timers complaining about gender labeling.  They take the binary side of the argument over multiple genders while I still think gender is a continuum and that the term gender has been mis-appropriated by too many people when they actually mean “sex” (especially when the question of which gender is limited to male or female as the answer).  Without getting into quantum arguments or anything like Schrödinger’s Cock (you know, until you open the panties it could be hard or soft or even nonexistent), there’s really no point in continuing the discussion.  One stupid argument always begets another (which is one of my favourite things about pubs), but I wasn’t really in the mood and, instead, just eavesdropped till my platter arrived.




An Indian fellow appeared in the door with three young boys (guessing between the ages of 8 and 11).  They squeezed into a table with an old couple next to my little dining area and, as the jackets were peeled away, they emerged as Liverpool supporters.  Exciting for them, I reckon, especially since the match ended 3-0 in their favour; but, not 5 miles away from Watford I was reminded of the advice — given to a young, southern lad — that I once heard in a country pub in Oxfordshire.

The Chequers is haunted.  I saw no sign of this save for the three old and oversized spectres worrying that a tranny wants to slide a sausage in their fat arses but there are websites describing the ghost (here, here, and here) if you are interested.



Posted April 7, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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