The time between Christmas and New Year (Twixmas), is always
a slightly strange one. I have an enforced lay-off from work, as my company
shuts down from Christmas Eve until New Year. It’s not as if they carry out any maintenance or other essential work, but close it does and staff have
to keep back 3-4 days, depending on how the Bank Holidays fall, from their
annual leave to cover this.
On several occasions in the past I’ve used this time off to
take a short break (2-3 days) in a European destination; normally somewhere
cold, and on one trip even experienced some of the heaviest snow I have seen in
my entire life. More recently, I have taken the opportunity to visit my elderly
parents in the wilds of Norfolk.
Mum sadly passed away, back in February, and now dad has had
to move into a care home, due to the worsening of his Alzheimer’s. I don’t have
to remind anyone about what a cruel and devastating disease this is, as it not
only robs people of their memories, but as time goes on it increasingly
destroys someone’s personality. Their interaction with other people also starts
to fade, as they gradually start to retreat into their own private world.
They say that Alzheimer’s is often worse for loved ones, and
for others close to the sufferer, and having seen dad I am pleased to report he
is being well looked after and has settled in well at the small, specialist
care home close to where he and my mother were living until quite recently. He
also appeared in good spirits, quite content with his lot, calm and certainly
not distressed in anyway, so this is a comfort to the family.
Anyway, this is supposed to be a blog about beer, so it is
worth referring to the two pub visits I made whilst in Norfolk.
The first was on the journey up, whilst the second was whilst staying overnight
at the family bungalow.
I know the route up to Norfolk like the back of my hand, and
this year have made the journey a record number of times; first to visit mum in
hospital, then for the funeral, and then to visit dad. I take the well-worn
route of M25, M11 and then A11, before skirting round Norwich
via the A47 towards Dereham - the nearest town to the family home. As I wasn’t
in a hurry this time, I decided to stop off on the way for a spot of lunch, and
a crafty pint.
Chequers Inn - Thompson |
I debated where to stop, before setting off; settling in the
end for the unspoilt 16th Century, thatched Chequers Inn at
Thompson; a small and intriguingly named village in the heart of Norfolk’s
Breckland area of sandy heath-lands and extensive pine forests. I had been
there once before, along with my wife, young son and American brother-in-law,
Ernie. This was about twenty years ago, when Ernie was still stationed at nearby
Lakenheath with the United States Air force.
During the course of his 13 year stint with the air force,
Ernie had developed a distinct liking for English beer, and had also sussed out
many of the local pubs. He also, of course, had met and married my sister. She
didn’t accompany us, on that visit, having recently given birth to my nephew
Jack, but Ernie had promised us a look around the airbase, and had thrown in a
visit to this rather splendid, country pub as a bonus.
As you can see from the photos, the Chequers is an
attractive looking building with a steeply thatched roof which seems almost to
reach to the ground. I don't remember that much about the pub from that first visit, because
we sat outside. Our son was only around four years old at the time, so we were
unable to take him inside. It was a nice day, so enjoying our drinks in
the open air was no problem. I do recall the pub serving an excellent pint of
Adnams though.
This time around, without the assistance of my
brother-in-law to guide me, the pub took a bit of finding. This was despite me
having an OS map in the car. It’s not very easy trying to read a map, and drive
at the same time, and although I had memorised what I thought was the way, I
still ended up taking a couple of wrong turns.
Perseverance pays off, and eventually I noticed a sign,
right in the centre of the village, directing travellers along a narrow road to
the Chequers. The sun was shining as I arrived, and after parking the car I
walked across towards the entrance, pausing first to take a few
photos.
A latched door led straight to a central bar, but there are
rooms leading off on either side. Both were furnished for diners, but as there
was sufficient space in the low-ceilinged bar, and I liked the cosy feel of the
place, I decided to remain there. Greene King IPA and Woodforde’s Wherry were the
cask ales on offer, and I opted for the latter. I have never been a huge fan of
Wherry, but the pint I had was exceptional, and had I not been driving I would
definitely have had a second.
Sensibly, I stuck to the one and ordered a ham baguette for
my lunch. This too was excellent; the thick slices of tasty home-cooked ham in
a large crusty white baguette being just right to set me up for the rest of the
day. I liked the feel of this small middle bar as well. It was populated by
country folk, and the talk was of country pursuits, such as shooting – clays as well as game. There
was a well-spoken young lady, dressed partly in tweeds, enjoying a drink with
both her father and grandfather. She was home from university and was talking
across to the young lad behind the bar, swapping tales about their various
shooting experiences. She seemed a little upset though when her grandfather
told her, in a very matter of fact way, how he had despatched a fox, using both
barrels of his gun. Country life obviously isn’t “jolly hockey sticks” all of
the time!
One other point about the bar which I couldn’t help noticing
was the rather low beam running directly in front of the bar counter. One
hapless chap, presumably not a regular, managed to crack his head on it no less
than three times whilst ordering his drinks!
As I said, it would have been nice to have stayed and
enjoyed another pint, but I continued my journey, cutting through along the
rural roads through Watton and then on to Dereham. Dad was looking OK when I
arrived at the care home, and the staff told me he had settled in nicely. I
stayed for a couple of hours, even though the conversation didn’t always make a
lot of sense.
I then headed for the family bungalow, which felt cold and
empty inside. I turned the heating up and made myself at home. With no food in
the place I decided I would eat out that evening, so after sorting a few things
out I set off down the road to Darby’s; the pub at the other end of the
village. I have written previously about Swanton Morley's two hostelries, and
whilst the Angel is the nearest one to dad’s bungalow, and the one I usually
frequent, it is very much a locals’ pub. Darby’s it was then, so I set off
along the more or less straight road which runs the entire length of this
linear village, reaching my destination some 20 minutes later.
A welcoming log fire at Darbys |
The pub was bustling, mainly with diners, but still not quite full
when I arrived. I found a space at the end of a long table, having first
ordered a pint of Lacon’s Legacy. I remembered this excellent hoppy, straw-coloured
beer from my previous visit, and it was every bit as good this time round. Also
on tap, were Adnams Bitter, Bullard’s No. 3 ABV
4.7% (brewed by Redwell- the brewery which got into a spat with Camden Town
over the use of the term "Hells"), plus a couple of seasonal specials, (one from
Wolfe, and the other a 4.2% beer called St Nick’s from Lacon’s).
I tried both the Bullards and the St Nick (halves only), preferring
the latter due to the hint of spiced orange peel combined with the citrus notes
from the hops. Food-wise I went for the battered cod with potato wedges and
petis pois, which was just right. The early diners gradually drifted off,
although a few latecomers did take up some of the vacant places. I was fine, sitting
close to the welcoming log fire, and before going ordered another pint of the
excellent Legacy. The landlady told me it was now a regular beer behind the
bar, and one of the pub’s top-selling cask ales; deservedly so in my book.
I said my farewells and set off to walk back to the bungalow.
It is nearly all uphill going back, but fortunately the moon had risen, meaning
I had little need of a torch on the return trip.
I expect I shall be going back to Darby’s; at least until
the bungalow is sold, for the hard financial truth is that care home fees are
not cheap and there is no help from government for people like my father.
People like him who have worked hard all their lives, paid their taxes and
provided for their families by buying their own home, are then expected to hand
everything over to the state; whilst the work-shy and ne’er-do-wells have everything given to them on a plate when they reach old age. Such is life in modern day Britain!
On a more cheerful note, it was a good couple of days. The Norfolk
countryside was looking pretty good in the winter sunshine. The pubs, the beer
and the food were all good and, most important of all, I can relax in the
knowledge that dad is being cared for and is being looked after well. He is in
a place of safety where I know he can live out his final days in peace and
contentment.