Contemplating a recently deceased Beer Blogger, in the tranquility of the Wheatsheaf, Bough Beech

During the run-up to Christmas, I’ve been spending a bit of time visiting pubs that I normally wouldn’t go to the trouble of frequenting. It’s all part of my scheme to visit as many pubs as possible, during 2025, and to beat last year’s total. That number was a miserly 70, significantly down on the previous year’s score of 84, but the good news is that 2025 will represent something of a record for me, with the magic one tonne (100), already passed.

There probably won’t be many opportunities now, to increase that total much further, not unless I can arrange a few pub crawls around towns that I am unfamiliar with, but numbers aren’t everything, and somewhere amongst that 100+ figure are several pubs that I haven’t been in before. A handful of these represent some of the finest establishments in the country. That brings me on to the other issue, and that is location, because after visiting many of the pubs within a 10-mile radius of Bailey Towers, I’m increasingly having to cast my net further and further away. Before doing so, I’m filling in the gaps, although perhaps that should be worded the other way round, because I’m currently ticking off the small number of public houses that so far, have escaped my clutches.

First stop then is the tiny hamlet of Bough Beech, just five minutes’ drive from my workplace at Chiddingstone Causeway, three miles to the east of Edenbridge, and five miles south west of Sevenoaks. The settlement is close to Bough Beech Reservoir, a man-made body of water used to supply drinking water to a part of West Kent and East Surrey. The Wheatsheaf is the only surviving local pub, following the closure several decades ago, of the Chequers; a pub that sadly closed it doors many years before I became acquainted with the local area.

The Wheatsheaf is a pub with a rich heritage, as evidenced by parts of the building which are reputed to originate from the 14^th century. This would have been during the reign of King Henry V, but it is a later Henry, who left more of a mark on the building, after using it as a hunting lodge. This was the tyrannical King Henry VIII, who was one of England’s most bloody and infamous kings. 

 

Today, the building is Grade 2 listed, and renovations have occasionally revealed clues about its background and its history. These clues include a rare medieval crown post, in the roof, plus a wattle-and-daub wall. In 2014, the pub underwent an extensive refurbishment by the current owner who, according to CAMRA, is a director at Westerham Brewery. The refurb revealed a number of notable oak beams, spacious inglenooks and distinct areas designed to accommodate both drinkers and diners. This is evidenced by the bar which occupies the central section of the pub, whilst the dining areas take up the spaces on either side of this area.

I called in, shortly after opening time, last Saturday, and noticed three cask ales on sale, from the bank of five handpumps.  The beers were Larkin’s Traditional, Westerham British Bulldog, plus Harvey’s Sussex Best. I was the pub’s only customer for a while, and with the log fires blazing away in the bar, as well as the left-hand dining area, the pub felt cosy and relaxing. It was certainly different to my previous visit, several years ago, when I sat out in the attractive terrace garden at the side of the pub. 

According to the Wheatsheaf’s website, produce sourced from the attached kitchen garden is often incorporated into the menu. The pub welcomes cyclists, motorcyclists, walkers (with or without dogs), horse riders, and beer bloggers! It's a different place though during the winter months when, after a brisk cross-country walk, there’s nothing better than settling down by one of the open fires at the Wheatsheaf, a pub, where even dogs receive a warm welcome. The pub interior is tastefully decorated, honouring its long history that stretches back over seven centuries. The Wheatsheaf’s careful attention to detail, makes it a wonderfully cosy spot for anything from Sunday lunch, a hearty evening meal or a few drinks on a Friday night.

Peter Edwardson aka Pub Curmudgeon 

Ending on a more sombre note, I would like to dedicate this post to the memory of fellow blogger, and dedicated pub-man, Peter Edwardson, who sadly, and quite unexpectedly, passed away at the weekend. Writing under the name of Pub Curmudgeon, Peter didn’t always live up to his name, although quite rightly, he could be particularly scathing of the big brewers, and their attempts to “improve” their tied estates.

He came across as quite a private individual, sometimes, very matter of fact, although under the right circumstances (a decent pub, and equally decent beer), he could be good company. I had the pleasure of meeting him a few times, including a fleeting visit he made to Tunbridge Wells, 10 or so years ago. However, Peter was at his best on the various pub crawls I joined him on, including Burton, Shifnal, Stockport and Macclesfield. I think that 2023, pre-Christmas meet up, in Macc, was the last time I saw him, and like the other occasions, he was good company.

"Old Mudgie", as he was affectionately known, had his own criteria for visiting pubs, but the words “solid”, “traditional” and “unspoilt” spring to mind. Like me, he wasn’t out to break any records, when it came to number of pubs visited, but he certainly had the knack of sniffing out the good ones. So, farewell fellow pub lover and beer enthusiast. I'm sure that your name will continue to crop up, when it comes to writing about days out, and pub crawls around historic pubs.

 

 

 

Return to Madeira, half a century on

We’ve been home now, from our late autumn cruise, for just over a month, and I suddenly realised that I hadn't written anything about our visit to Madeira – officially the third port of call on our two-week voyage. However, as things turned out, with our aborted attempt to dock at Praia de Vitoria, Madeira was actually the second location we visited. Our ship docked at Funchal, the lovely and rather charming capital of Madeira, where we had an overnight stop at Funchal. This gave us two full days in which to explore this charming town along with the surrounding area.

As I’ve probably mentioned before, I’d visited Funchal before, again arriving by ship, although that time it was a school “educational cruise” in a converted, former troop ship. As almost 50 years had passed since that visit, my memories of Madeira are rather limited. Having said that, I’m pretty certain that my school mates and I just proceeded down the gangway and walked into Funchal, rather than being bussed into town, as Eileen, me and other passengers were. The drive itself took around 10 minutes, if that’s anything to go by, but after half a century, who really knows.

The coach dropped us off at a bus station on the seafront, where there were landscaped gardens, shaded with palm trees. We decided to explore the immediate vicinity before finding a suitable place for lunch. Eileen’s niece, and her husband had visited the island recently and had strongly recommended a restaurant situated further along the seafront. She hadn’t indicated how far along, but after reviewing the location on Google Maps, we realized it was a good 45–50-minute walk. This was rather too far Mrs PBT’s, and further too than I’d care to walk, just for a bite to eat. Fortunately, we discovered several excellent alternatives in the vicinity.

Our first stop was a small café with outdoor shaded seating, beneath a canopy. We dropped in, ordered a coffee each, as well as a delicious Portuguese custard tart. Sitting there gave us time to figure out where to eat later. We then wandered down one of the side streets that run parallel to the shoreline—narrow, bustling, and full of charm. 

There were plenty of local cafés and bars opening onto the street, all very inviting and tempting, although one particularly proprietor was rather too vocal and persistent for my liking, in his attempts to encourage visitors to try his rooftop bar. It may well have afforded views out over the seafront, but he didn’t get our custom, no matter how good his establishment might have been.

We moved on and looked elsewhere, and after taking a shortcut, back towards the sea front, we found the terminus of the city's famous cable car. For €20, you can ride right to the top of the hills (mountains) behind the city, and enjoy uninterrupted views stretching right across Funchal, and out to the sea beyond. Having watched the film “Where Eagles Dare”, I've never been that keen on cable cars. Mrs PBT’s felt the same, so we decided to skip that activity, and walked a little further in the direction of the ship. There we noticed a contemporary and laid-back place called “Loft”, with a few tables overlooking the grassy area we'd just passed through.

Wanting something light for our lunch, we checked out their menu, which included some nice bruschetta’s, and decided to give the place a try. We found a table, in the shade, and ordered some drinks. A half litre of Coral White – the local lager, for me and whatever Eileen was having - mineral water I expect. Our food arrived, looking nicely presented, and tasting as good as it looked. It was just the right size for lunch, as without wishing to sound too self-righteous, we were trying to be mindful about what we ate, despite being on holiday.

Afterwards, whilst Mrs PBT’s got stuck into her obligatory coffee, I decided to try the Coral Stout, but somehow, I ended up with another White beer. Something had obviously been lost in translation, but no matter. On our way back to the coach terminal, we found the inevitable souvenir shop and picked up a few goodies, including a couple of the ever-popular fridge magnets. No pineapples though, just to disappoint those who get excited about such things! Afterward, we took the bus back to the cruise terminal and returned to the ship.

The following morning, at Mrs PBT's suggestion, I went into Funchal on my own. If anything, the day was hotter than the previous one, and I was left wishing I'd brought my water bottle with me – an "elementary school boy error", as one of my colleagues would say. But I hadn't, regardless of my colleague’s advice, so after staying in the shade as much as possible, I found a nice little corner café, close to Funchal’s rather modest looking cathedral. I sat outside, in the shade, enjoying a coffee plus a bottle of ice-cold water, before contemplating my next move.

It had been quite a climb up to the cathedral, although given that Funchal is constructed on a hill, this wasn’t surprising. I’d ended up on the other side of the main thoroughfare that bisects the town, so I headed in a roughly easterly direction, and ended up close to where Eileen and I had been the day before. 

Not all the shops were open, as it was a religious holiday, but the restaurants, bars and souvenir outlets were certainly trading, as were the ice-cream sellers, so hiding behind the pretext that a cone, or small tub would cool me down, I ordered a generous scoop. It was one of those places that leave you spoiled for choice, but whilst tempted by mango, I opted for the pineapple ice cream – what is it about that fruit that is so tempting?

After crossing the busy highway that runs down from the upper parts of Funchal, towards the seafront, I realised I was back in the maze of narrow back streets where we had walked the previous day. I was tempted by a small, local fish-restaurant, where patrons could sit outside, and enjoy a meal whilst watching the world go by. With menus in English, and photos to guide one, I opted for a freshly grilled sea-bass – highly recommended according to the friendly waiter. Served with some freshly cooked, boiled potatoes and garnished with parsley and butter, it was the perfect lunchtime meal. A glass of Coral Stout - the beer I'd missed out on the day before, went down well with my meal, as well as being another tick on Untappd.

I went inside to make use of the “facilities” and also to pay the bill. As I was counting out the cash, the waiter, and the chef, offered me a glass of “Poncha”, a traditional alcoholic beverage, made with sugar cane rum, honey and lemon juice that is popular in Madeira. The rum was over-proof, so this shot, which was on the house, had quite a kick to it.  A nice place, though with good food, nice surroundings and friendly people, what more could one want?

With the afternoon drawing to a close, I returned to the bus terminal and took the bus back to the ship, aiming of course be back on board with ample time before the scheduled departure. I’m sure many of you will have seen those YouTube clips of late returning passengers running along the pier, waving their arms in a vain attempt to signal the ship to halt. This of course is a futile gesture, as once the vessel has prepared to depart, and cast off its lines it cannot return to the quayside, unless there is a dire emergency. Not allowing sufficient time to be back on board, doesn’t constitute such a situation.

Later that evening Mrs PBT’s and I sat out on our cabin balcony, watching Queen Victoria slide away from the quayside, before heading out to sea. With the lights of Funchal twinkling away in the background, the ship followed the coastline of Madeira for a while, until we reached a point where the island’s main airport came into view. The latter is quite a construction, on an island with very little in the way of flat land. The airport’s designers’ solved this issue by supporting the runway on concrete pillars, which rise above the hill side and an adjacent motorway. With the lights, and later sounds of an approaching aircraft, I retrieved my binoculars from the cabin and watched as the plane made a text-book landing. 

According to Eileen’s niece, it’s quite a scary descent and landing, so maybe arriving and departing by ship, is the way to go. It’s how both my visits to Madeira were achieved, although I’m fairly certain that airport hadn’t been conceived, let alone built back in 1971, when I first came to this charming and captivating Atlantic island.

 

It's that time of year, again

It’s that strange time of year that precedes the run up to Christmas, a commercial enterprise that seems to have started whilst we were away on our late autumn, Atlantic cruise. Mrs PBT’s and I are both too long in the tooth to concern ourselves with yule-tide activity, and son Matthew isn’t overly struck on the concept, either.  Working in retail means he is exposed to the madness that is “Christmas shopping” with all the pushing and shoving associated with the frenzy of buying those “must have” gifts. By the time the main event arrives, he is as cheesed off as the rest of us, fed up to the back teeth with Christmas, and the commercialisation associated with it.

If I had my way I’d disappear to somewhere really cold, where they have lots of proper snow, and an authentic “Christmas” feel about the place, rather than endure the damp, draughty and chilly conditions of a typical 21^st century, English winter.  I sound like some old boy, sounding off in the local pub about things not being what they were, even though I’m sure every generation that comes along feels the same. It’s party season as well, with pubs and restaurants geared up for what for them is supposed to be the busiest time of the year.  My firm’s Christmas bash takes place on Friday week and is being hosted by a largish pub at the bottom end of the High Street, in Tunbridge Wells. I won’t reveal the pub yet, but it’s an old established hostelry that has reverted to its original name, after years of trading under a series of daft names, that some trendy, pub company executive thought would appeal to the local “yoof”.

That depends, of course, on whether supplies of potable water have been restored to the spa town, or not, because as many of you will know, Tunbridge Wells has been making national headlines recently, for all the wrong reasons. Local residents have been without water, drinking or otherwise, for the best part of a week due to what can only be described as a “cock-up” of biblical proportions at the local treatment works. There are already reports of pubs and restaurants cancelling bookings, due to the water shortage, at what should be the busiest, and most lucrative time of the year. South East Water are the company behind this fiasco, and I can certainly empathise with residents of our neighbouring town, having experienced a similar shortage earlier in the year. Fortunately, that particular outage, only lasted a couple of days, but it still brought home how dependent we all are on having a clean and reliable source of water, piped into our homes.

I’ve spent much of the day catching up with various outstanding tasks, including some minor maintenance on my car, but the main job I had was renewing my UK passport. Fortunately, passport renewals can be carried out online, and this includes uploading a current photo of oneself. Snappy Snaps, photo shop have simplified this process, by providing a unique code, that links to recent photos taken in the store. In my case, this was last week and have to say that the end result is far superior to those provided by the photo booths we had to huddle in, back in the day. The booths were a regular feature in shopping centres and station concourses, and probably still are to a certain extent.

There is also no need now, to have one’s photo verified by an “upstanding member” of society, such as a teacher, church minister, doctor or similar profession. Quite how these individuals were considered more “upstanding” than us lesser mortals is beyond me, but I am quite glad to see the end of a requirement that really does belong in Britain’s class-ridden past. I lost out on 6 months validity on the passport I am surrendering, thanks to the shenanigans of Brexit, because since that inglorious day, the validity of passports, for non-EU citizens, is a strict 10 years from date of issue. 

To illustrate this point, my current document was issued in Apil 2016 but doesn’t actually expire until December 2026. That additional seven-month period is no longer valid, after the UK deliberately made itself a “third country”. I already knew this, but it was pointed out, when I checked in at Southampton, six weeks ago, prior to boarding our cruise ship. Thanks, Boris, you great big, useless lump of lard, and the same applies to all the other weaselly, Brexit-backing creeps, such as Michael Gove, Jacob Rees-Mogg, John Redwood etc.

I had another disappointment earlier today, although not quite in the same league. Having submitted my online application, I had a bit of time to spare, prior to collecting Mrs PBT’s from her place of work. I had it in mind to visit the historic, George & Dragon, at Speldhurst. My last visit has been in August 2024, whilst completing the final stretch of the Tunbridge Wells Circular Walk. There have been a number of changes since then, the most noteworthy being ownership of the pub returning to the Sankey family. This was the culmination of a story dating back 65 years, when the grandparents of current owner, Matthew Sankey, bought this ancient old inn.

You can read the rest of the story here, but it’s worth knowing that Matthew Sankey also runs a restaurant-cum-pub, called Sankey’s, at the top of Mount Ephraim, in Tunbridge Wells. I was keen to see how things were progressing at the George & Dragon, following its return to family ownership, and with three-quarters of an hour to spare, it seemed the ideal opportunity. I hadn’t banked on being unable to park the car though, but after a fruitless drive around, I gave up on the idea. Too many large vehicles seemed the problem, but regrettably I too am guilty of this, having bought an SUV a couple of years ago. Much easier to slide in and out of, than a standard saloon, especially for Mrs PBT’s who has a few mobility issues, but not much good when it comes to squeezing in and out of tight places.

Sadly, I had the abort the idea, but on the drive back to Eileen’s work place, I thought of at least five former pubs in nearby Southborough, all of which are now sadly closed. All of these closures pre-date COVID and are just signs of the demise of the pub trade across the country. I shall make another attempt to visit the George & Dragon, in the not-too-distant future, but the fact that the car park was full, is proof that the pub is doing alright, now it is back in family ownership.