Banished from the house!

I want to take a look back at the week before last, which was the period when Mrs PBT's was feeling quite poorly and sorry for herself due to a bout of Cellulitis. The condition had left her feeling tired, nauseous and off her food, a situation that was made worse when she started the prescribed course of strong antibiotics. It became bad enough that even the smell of cooking was sufficient to make want to throw up, so for a couple of evenings Matthew and I decided it was best to eat out.

Every cloud has a silver lining as they say, and this was no exception, the only trouble was, apart from the well-known chains, there aren't that many pubs in the local area that serve food on a Monday evening. One place that I knew kept its kitchen open, was the Spotted Dog, at Smarts Hill near Penshurst, but just to make sure I phoned up and made a reservation. The lad and I arrived shortly before 7:00 pm but were rather bemused to discover there was no free parking space available in what is, quite a substantial car park.

This seemed strange, although the cause soon became apparent, because milling around in the car park, were a large number of athletic looking individuals. At first, I thought they were ramblers, but it soon dawned on me that they were runners, looking at maps and comparing notes with one another. They were obviously about to depart on a run, and the logical conclusion Matthew and I jumped to was that this group of individuals were rather cheekily leaving their vehicles in the pub car park before setting off on a run.

Not amused, I phoned pub, to inform them I booked a table but was unable to get my vehicle into the car park. “You're not cancelling, are you?” replied the lady who answered the phone. I replied that I might have to, as there was nowhere to leave the car. She told me that there was some space to the left of the pub, in front of the garage, and that as the roads were slightly wider there, we should be alright. I did as instructed, even though I'm not a fan of leaving my vehicle, in an exposed position on an unlit country lane.

We walked back to the Spotted Dog expecting to it heaving, but there was ample room inside, especially for people like us who had booked a table. We were directed to one close to the fireplace, and facing the bar, but first we wanted a drink. I said to the lady behind the bar that I’d expected the pub to be bursting at the seams, given the number of cars parked outside.  She laughed and explained that most of these belonged to members of a local running club, and the idea was they would leave their vehicles in the car park, go off for their run, and then return to the pub for a drink, a bite to eat or perhaps both. That was the plan, although I wondered how many runners would actually do this. Just in case most of them did, I suggested to Matthew that once we were suitably fed and watered, it would be best to leave the pub before it was taken over by a load of dusty, sweaty and potentially smelly runners.

This aside, we ordered some drinks, a pint of Harvey’s Best for me as, disappointingly, the Goacher’s Silver Star that had been my original choice had gone off (why not turn the pump clip around?) The other cask beer was the ubiquitous Larkin’s Trad, a 3.4% ordinary bitter which, despite being the brewery’s best-selling brand, has never been my favourite. Matthew, on the other hand, didn't need much persuasion to go for the Hofmeister, although it was me who spotted it!  He's obviously not such an experienced pub-goer as me.

We were a little disappointed to find the pub had changed its menu, because until quite recently, Monday evening was Curry Night at the Spotted Dog, and whilst there was a single Korma dish featured on the menu, most of the options were pretty standard pub fayre. One item that took my fancy was “pie of the day,” although when the time came to order I didn't really fancy the idea of Steak and Stilton as a filling. Instead, I decided to be boring and went for good old fish and chips. Matthew chose burger and chips, so no surprises there, and we didn't have to wait long either before the food was served up. It was pleasant enough, although my piece of battered fish looked too small to be a fillet of cod. As if in response to this, I couldn't help overhearing another diner commenting on the size of the fish to his companions.  He too seemed to be wondering what type of fish it was, but despite this neither of us plucked up the courage to ask the staff.

As planned, we managed to leave the pub in good time, and certainly before any panting and sweat soaked runners turned up to spoil the show. Thank goodness I said, because I can't think of anything worse than a cross country run, as it reminds me too much of school, and the times we used to bunk off, and hide in the woods, before tagging on the end as the rest of the group came panting back, having completed the full course. It reminds me of the time I was chosen to be a marker for the House Cross-country Competition, and I sent a group of runners along the wrong path. This wasn’t deliberate, although I got into trouble for it, but my argument was the PE master hadn’t explained the route properly. Happiest days of one’s life? I don't really think so, but looking back I have to allow myself a chuckle over the incident.

The following day, the lady of the house was still feeling poorly, and the smell of food was again inducing feelings of nausea. This time I told Matthew I didn't want to drive, so we walked the short distance from home to the Vauxhall Inn, an enlarged former coaching inn, on the edge of Tonbridge, on the old London-Hastings road. Today it forms part of the Chef & Brewer chain, although when I first moved to Tonbridge it was a much smaller, and rather basic Whitbread pub. For those contemplating a longer stay, there is a Premier Inn adjacent to the pub, which makes the Vauxhall a good base for those visiting the area.

The entrance to the pub is via the side door, and once inside we were met by a member of staff, who showed us to a table at the rear of the pub. According to Matthew, who frequents the Vauxhall far more often than me, this is now the restaurant area. He said that his friend was annoyed as the management don’t allow customers to eat in the bar anymore, but this didn't particularly bother me at the time. I asked the young man what beers were available, and I was told there was no cask. So as a distress purchase, I opted for the Greene King Ice Breaker, a keg “craft ale”. Matthew went for an Amstel, or something equally insipid, but when my beer arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not full of gas, not too cold, and instead it was rather flavoursome.

As with the Spotted Dog, pies featured on the Vauxhall’s menu, so I chose the chicken and ham hock variety, served up with mash, vegetables, and gravy.  Once again, Matthew went for a burger, but that’s what he enjoys, and it’s never a bad choice. There was a reasonable number of customers in the pub, but it wasn't exactly heaving. Also, as most of the diners were already there when we arrived, Matthew and I ended up being the last to leave. All in all, it was a good meal and the Ice Breaker too, wasn’t a bad pint either.

By Wednesday Mrs PBT's was feeling a little bit better, although she was still off her food. Matthew and I bought ourselves a "ready meal" each, and when we got home from the supermarket, Eileen disappeared upstairs, leaving us to enjoy our meal without feeling guilty. The same thing happened the following day, but by Friday she was feeling much better and eating again.  

Neither of us are sure what caused Eileen's Cellulitis. It’s a non-transmittable disease, and the consensus is that the bacteria which cause it, breach the body’s defences by entering through a small wound, such as an insect bite, or a cut. 

We’re pretty certain that in Eileen’s case, a cracked heel was the cause, but this is now the second time that she’s had this condition. As I wrote before, it’s far more common than people realise, so do take care whilst gardening, or walking through brambles, and wear long trousers as well, when hiking. Shorts might feel more comfortable, but there are quite a few nasties out there, lurking in the long grass, just waiting for a juicy chunk of unprotected leg flesh to sink their fangs into. Tick-borne ailments, such as Lyme disease, are on the increase, so do take care whilst out there.