Check in at the Chequers for breakfast

Continuing their quest for the perfect breakfast, father and son team, Paul and Matthew ventured along to one of the oldest parts of Tonbridge High Street, this morning and really came up trumps. 

I’m not talking about the orange idiot in the White House, but instead I’m referring to us unearthing one of the best breakfasts, both in terms of quality and value for money, that we’ve had in a long time.

We discovered our breakfast "Shangri-La" at the Chequers, which is one of the oldest buildings in Tonbridge. Situated near the “Big Bridge” over the River  Medway, in the shadow of Tonbridge’s ancient castle, the Chequers has quite rightly been described as "one of the finest examples of a Kentish timber-framed building that can be found today.”

It is certainly a very attractive building and its photogenic qualities mean that, after the castle, it is one of the most photographed buildings in Tonbridge. I wrote an article here, back in August 2018, so I won’t repeat it all here, but what I will say it was purely by chance that father and son ended up there on Saturday morning.

We’d walked past the Chequers on Friday evening, on our way to Tonbridge Juddians Rugby Club, for their annual winter beer and cider festival. We noticed an “A” board on the pavement outside advertising a what looked like a substantial breakfast for the principal sum of £5.95. There was also a large breakfast available for a couple of quid more.

We normally reserve our breakfast outings for Sunday mornings, but with Storm Ciara due to batter the country tomorrow, we decided to bring it forward a day. Matthew was not working this weekend, so a fairly early start saw us walking into the Chequers at around 9.30am.

We were the first people in, but the friendly landlady soon appeared to take our order and to tell us we could sit where we liked. We opted for a table to the far left of the “L” shaped bar, and before long our host re-appeared with a mug of tea for each of us, and some toast. This was Matthew’s first visit to the Chequers, so I told him a little more about the place. See previous post for details.

It wasn’t long before the chef appeared with our food, warning us the plates were very hot – always a good sign as far as I am concerned. So with three rashers of bacon, two tasty farmhouse sausages, a fried egg, tomato, hash browns, toast and black pudding, this was definitely a breakfast to keep me, at least, going until tea time.

While we were getting stuck into our breakfast, several other people came in. We noticed at least four more breakfasts being served; understandable given the keen pricing and the quality of the offering. From the questions being asked and the responses given, I had the distinct impression they were regulars at the pub.

To finish, I’ve included a photo of the pumps – this is a blog about beer after all. I wouldn’t mind betting that three is one pump too many, especially as the Chequers has never struck me as much of an ale drinkers’ pub. If I was in charge, I’d knock the Tribute on the head, leaving just the Harvey’s Best and the Proper Job to satisfy the cask crowd.

Given the pub’s proximity to home I can see the Chequers becoming a regular breakfast haunt amongst the male members of the Bailey household.  And seeing as they’ve got St Austell Proper Job on tap, I might also be tempted to pop in one evening – as long as it’s not karaoke night!

Gower - re-visited

As those who have been paying attention will know, Mrs PBT’s and I spent a few days recently, in Welsh Wales. We travelled down to for a family funeral, to pay our final respects to my great aunt, who passed away last month at the ripe old age of 97.

Whilst funerals are obviously sad occasions, they do afford the opportunity of catching up with family members who you might not have seen for a while. My aunt’s was no exception, but along with reconnecting with the Welsh side of the family, being in Wales allowed me to re-explore an area which was a favourite from childhood, and the setting for some memorable family holidays.

We travelled across to Wales on the Sunday, staying at a Premier Inn, on the edge of Llanelli; the Carmarthenshire town famous for both rugby and tin-plate production. Just across from Llanelli, projecting out into the Bristol Channel, on the other side of the Loughor estuary, is the Gower Peninsular; the first area in the United Kingdom to be designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

With my aunt’s funeral not due to take place until 4pm on the Monday, and us not travelling back to Kent until the following day, we had a free morning to carry out some of that exploring. So what better than to head over to the Gower for a scenic drive around and a stop off at one or two local beauty spots.

The Gower was the location of several happy family holidays as a child, staying with my parents and younger sister in a caravan at Oxwich Bay. My aunt and uncle lived in nearby Swansea, and most days we would meet up with them and my four cousins, sharing idyllic days on the nearby beach, or visiting some of Gower’s other coastal  attractions.

The sheer beauty of some of those long sandy beaches, sandwiched between exposed rocky headlands, stayed with me, and I managed to share a small part of it with Mrs PBT’s, when we spent the second half of our honeymoon at Caswell Bay. I had a longing to re-engage with this part of the country and show Eileen a bit more of what Gower had to offer, so despite it being early February, we set off to visit two unspoilt and rugged locations at the far end of the peninsular.

I had an OS map in the car, but to save us keep stopping to look at the map, I suggested we make use of the dodgy Chinese sat-nav, on Mrs PBT’s phone. That was a big mistake as we were directed along roads only narrow enough for one vehicle, and hills so steep that a rack and pinion type of traction, would not have been out of place. In the end, common sense took over and I reverted to my trusty Ordnance Survey Map.

First port of call, was the long sandy beach which forms Rhossili Bay, at the western extremity of the Gower Peninsular. Three miles in length, and backed by extensive sand dunes, the beach is known locally as Llangennith Sands. Behind the beach just north of Llangennith village is Rhossili Down with the highest point on the Gower Peninsula, the Beacon reaching 633 feet above sea level.

We always referred to the beach as Llangennith, and with the dunes providing shelter from the strong onshore westerly wind, this was the perfect place for our two families to set up camp and spread ourselves out, before making forays down to the water’s edge. Wading out through the shallow surf until almost at chest height, and then jumping, and at times cresting the powerful breakers which came crashing in from the Atlantic, was a favourite pastime of my father, sister and one of our cousins, until the time my sister was caught in a rip-tide.

I was present too, but as I could feel an undercurrent starting to pull at me, I sensibly turned and swam back towards the shore. The next thing I saw was my father frantically waving for me to help with my sister. Instinct kicked in, so I swam back out, and together the pair of us, managed to haul my sister back to safety. It was a close-run thing and a strong reminder of  the power of the sea!

I digress, but when re-visiting places such as this, the memories come flooding back. On this current visit, we didn’t drive all the way down to the dunes, but instead parked up on the hill, taking in the splendid view out to sea and the magnificent sweep of Rhossili Bay.

We were both a little peckish by now – all that sea air, so my plan was to head southwards along the bay to the rocky headland which culminates at a promontory known as Worm’s Head. I’d done a spot of homework, and discovered that the nearby Worm’s Head Hotel offered a decent lunch and an equally decent drop of ale. So off we went.

The only trouble is that with the imposing bulk of Rhossili Down in the way, there is no direct road from Llangennith to Rhossili village. We had to head several miles back inland, before joining first the A4118 and then the winding B4247, which took us to our destination. We parked up at the National Trust-owned car park at the far end of Rhossili, which conveniently is adjacent to the Worm’s Head Hotel.

We made our way inside, after stopping to take a few photos of the magnificent scenery. The Worm's Head, is shaped like a giant sea-serpent and marks the most westerly tip of Gower. It’s name comes from the Norse “Wurm,” meaning dragon, and is an island joined to the mainland by a rocky causeway. I remember walking out to the end of  the promontory with my father. I’m sure he was tempted to cross to the island, but my mother would have had kittens at the prospect, so on that occasion, discretion took the place of valour.

Refreshment time, but when we walked into the bar of the Worm’s Head Hotel, we were the morning’s first customers. The barman informed us that the kitchen opened at midday, so with less than 15 minutes to wait, we ordered ourselves a drink, and moved into the adjacent Bay Lounge, where there are magnificent views out across the sweep of Rhossili Bay. We discovered that where we were sitting was once the hotel car park; this section and the adjoining bar being added to the main hotel, back in 1972.

This was probably shortly after my last visit to the area, and as I remarked upon the splendid view, the barman replied how lucky he was to have such scenery right outside his “office window.” There were a couple of cask ales on tap, and in selecting the 4.5% Gower Gold, I made the right choice, as this locally-brewed golden ale, is packed full of cascade hops.  Definitely a 3.5 NBSS.

Not quite knowing what would be happening after the funeral, we both opted for a light lunch, in the form of a tuna and mayonnaise baguette apiece. Nice and fresh, it fitted in

with the bright and airy feel of the hotel, which has 17 en-suite bedrooms, a restaurant and all the facilities one would expect from such an establishment.

The Worm’s Head Hotel is family run, and given it remote location, at the western extremity of the Gower Peninsular, is the ideal place for getting away from it all, whilst still retaining plenty of creature comforts. With nothing much in the way of shops in the immediate vicinity, Mrs PBT’s might take some convincing, but I’m already sold on the place.

An unexpected surprise

Just a quick post from my phone. Mrs PBT's and I are currently down in Welsh Wales, in advance of a family funeral tomorrow.

It's my great aunt who we'll be saying goodbye to tomorrow. She was in her late nineties and managed to stay in her own home until just before the end.

Funerals, however sad, do allow the opportunity for catching up with family members, and this one will allow me to reconnect with the Welsh side of the family.

Despite previous issues, we're staying at a Premier Inn again. The Llanelli East hotel is a short drive  from the crematorium, and with my sister traveling down from Nottingham tomorrow, it's a handy place for us to meet up.


After a four and a half  hour drive from Kent, we thought we'd stay local this evening, so it was off to the adjacent Beefeater for a bite to eat and something to drink.

Now the beer offering in these places is usually pretty dire. I ended up drinking Erdinger Weissbier at the  Beefeater nearest our hotel in Dundee last month, so the sight of a hand pump with a Brain's SA clip was one to gladden the heart of a drinker resigned to pints of insipid  Doom Bar.

We sat down, scanned the menu and ordered some drinks. My pint of Brains came topped with a thick creamy head. The first taste confirmed its excellence, and boy what a cracking pint it was!

It was a definite 3.5 NBSS, and I even contemplated awarding it a 4! Of course I had to have another, and it was equally good.

So full marks to the Pemberton Beefeater, for going with something relatively local, rather than playing it safe by going with a national bland.

Footnote: I re-jigged the layout of this post, when I arrive home. What looks OK on the small-screen, doesn't always transfer across so well to the large one.

We called in at the Beefeater the following evening, with my sister. This was after leaving my aunt's wake. The local club, where the wake was held, had put on a good spread, but as my sister is denying herself all animal related products, there wasn't much that she could eat.

We decided to grab a couple of bowls of chips, even though Eileen and I weren't all that hungry. 
More importantly, there was the chance of another pint of Brains. It wasn't quite as good as the previous evening, but was still eminently drinkable. 

The Pemberton Beefeater did drop slightly in Mrs PBT's estimation as it refused to accept her fifty pound note - company policy, apparently. 
 
She was still fuming about it the following day!

Sun sets on the Rising Sun

CAMRA's WhatPub describes the Rising Sun, at Cotman's Ash as, "a remote hilltop pub with a fading pub sign, which makes it difficult to find." The fact it is hidden behind a hedge, in an area criss-crossed with hedgerows, makes discovery even harder. Persistence pays off though, and it is well worth the extra effort in tracking the pub down.

At least it was, but sadly, on the very same day that Britain turned its back on the European Union, and shut up shop in Brussels, the Rising Sun also pulled its very last pint. Faced with a steadily declining trade, the current landlady, who took over the pub with her late husband in the early 90's, has decided to call it a day.

This is a real tragedy for those who love unspolit country pubs, but it is difficult, if nigh impossible in this day and age, to make a living from a pub that relies solely on wet sales. Although the Rising Sun was popular with walkers, especially during the summer months, the understandable reluctance of driving there, and being limited to just a couple of drinks, was hardly an encouragement for trade.

I've been told that the Rising Sun did at one time serve food, and was well patronised, so I'm not sure why this important side of the business was dropped, but as from 1st February, the pub is now a private residence. The landlady will continue to live there, but with no apparent interest from her children in taking the place over, the Rising Sun seems unlikely to re-open as a pub.

Last Sunday I joined a small group of local CAMRA members on a rather muddy walk to this classic old country pub; a walk prompted, and hastily arranged, by news of its imminent closure. Our walk started from Otford station, and followed the route of the North Downs Way. You can read about it here.

WhatPub's description is accurate, as were it not for the sign poking up from behind the hedgerow, we would have walked straight passed. The Rising Sun has a flint exterior and is  thought to be a  former hunting lodge.  It sits in its own grounds,  which include a reasonably-sized  beer garden with a vegetable plot at the far end. The presence of a hen coupe completes the image of a rural small-holding.

As we arrived, we were greeted by a couple of dogs, followed by the landlady, who was making her way out with a couple of large bird feeders. She stopped in her tracks and returned inside instead, ready to serve us.

It seemed quite dark inside the pub, but as she made her way back behind the bar, she told us to make ourselves at home around the table in front of the fireplace. The interior of the Rising Sun has the sort of oak beams you'd expect in an old country inn, with the main centre of activity grouped around the bar. There is a room to the right, but this seemed to be a general "dumping ground," and was full with boxes, piles of magazines and all other sorts of clutter.

Leading off to the left, behind the chimney and fireplace is a much larger and more spacious room, furnished with a number of old settees and armchairs. This area is also carpeted and had the feel of an old fashioned parlour, or sitting room. My grandparents had such a room at the far end of their Suffolk cottage. It was only used for best, or special occasions, such as entertaining visitors, or important guests.

The landlady's dogs had made themselves at home in this room, unlike the pub cat which took a real shine to one of my friends, perching itself on his lap for the duration of our stay. As for the beer, well it ran out, the single hand-pump had a beer from there was just enough for a pint each for the five of us, before the cask ran dry.

The beer in question was Giggle & Titter, a 3.8% session IPA from Parkway Brewery - very Frankie  Howerd - "titter ye not," for those who remember the late comedian. The brewery are based in the Somerset market town of Somerton, and the beer's name is rhyming slang for "bitter." It was rather good, so the fact that it ran out was even more disappointing.

The landlady said that was it, as with the pub closing at the end of the week, she was running stocks down. She told us that rather ironically, after announcing she was shutting up shop, back in the autumn, she'd had one of busiest periods for a long time; in fact the past three months had seen more sales than the previous year!

So if you like pubs to be homely and unchanged, like me you will be sorry to see the loss  of the Rising Sun. As a relic from yesteryear, its passing represents the disappearance of yet another unique, quaint, old-fashioned and rather special, time-warp pub. Years ago most country pubs were like this, and I can recall many similar establishments that have either closed their doors or been converted into upmarket eateries.

The latter seems the only way such gems can survive, but sadly it is now too late to enjoy this one. Last Sunday represented only my third visit to the Rising Sun, so three visits in over thirty years is hardly much of a record, and if other people's visits were as infrequent as mine, nowhere near enough to keep a pub like this going.

A real shame, as the landlady made us all feel welcome, as did the small group of regulars, crowded in front of the bar. Where they will drink now is anyone's guess, but I can't help thinking that sadly, we have lost something rather unique and very special.

North Downs Way - Otford to Wrotham

I managed to knock off an eight mile section of the North Downs Way last Sunday. This followed me joining a group of local CAMRA members on a rather muddy walk to a classic old country pub, nestled on top of the downs; a pub that will sadly close its doors for good this coming Friday, (today!).

The pub in question was the Rising Sun at Cotman’s Ash; not to be confused with the Rising Sun at Twitton,  just the other side of Otford. Now I intend writing a separate post about the Rising Sun, but my mention of Otford was deliberate, as the village’s railway station was the starting point of our walk.

The North Downs Way passes through this pleasant village, which nestles in a gap in the chalk hills, formed by the River Darent, and after agreeing to accompany my friends on this hastily arranged walk,  the possibility that I could complete a further section of this long-distance trail, began to take shape in my mind.

The walk was arranged by a handful of West Kent CAMRA members, following a Twitter-feed advising of the Rising Sun’s imminent closure. The fact that this ancient old inn is closing on the same day as Britain’s ill-advised departure from the European Union, was a fact that was not lost on many of us, but leaving such comparisons aside, the loss of this classic country alehouse marks the loss of a piece of living history, as well as the demise of a way of life for the pub’s owner.

Our small walking group was made up of just five hardy souls who met at Tonbridge station, before taking the train to Sevenoaks. We then changed onto the Darent Valley Line, before alighting (always a strange term) at the aforementioned Otford. A short walk east of the station leads to a path which begins a long ascent up the aptly named “Otford Mount.”

At first the path is sandwiched between some rather posh looking houses, but these are soon left behind as it continues to climb towards the 204 metre summit – what’s that in old money? I first walked up this path, some 20 years ago, back in the days when we had a family dog. The surrounding area seems much more overgrown than I remember it; evidence of how the advancing scrub-land can easily takeover.

Later on, we came across a group of volunteers, equipped with brush-cutters – industrial-size strimmers, who were cutting down the advancing bushes and infant trees, preventing them from becoming established and converting the grassy chalk downland into the beginnings of a forest.

The terrain levelled out, once we reached the summit of the mount, but we were then faced with the challenge of sticky mud. After one of the wettest autumns and early winters on record, the ground remains saturated, even on top of the normally rapid-draining chalk hills.  Fortunately most of us had heeded the advice to wear stout walking boots, but these intermittent muddy areas still managed to slow us down.

For me though, it was just great to be back out in the open countryside, after being cooped up indoors for three weeks, because of man flu and/or inclement weather. It was mild for mid-January, making walking pleasure, despite the muddy conditions underfoot.

We eventually reached our destination, finding the attractive Rising Sun pub, almost hidden behind a hedgerow. Constructed from a mixture of brick and roughly-hewn local flints, the pub sits in what looks like its own small-holding. A couple of dogs came out to greet us, before we stepped inside.

The interior was like stepping back in time, but I’m going to leave the description of the pub for the separate article, as there’s much to tell. More to the point, there’s another four miles of walking to cover, before we get to the end of this particular section of the NDW.

We didn’t stop long at the Rising Sun, primarily because the pub had run dry. Our party of five were served what turned out to be the last pints of cask left. With closure planned for Friday, the landlady was trying to run down stocks. Consequently there was no more cask waiting to come on tap.

Our original plan had been to stop for a couple of pints at the Rising Sun before heading back. A different  return route was mooted; one which involved missing the muddy fields and woodland, by walking along the lanes which criss-cross this part of the downs. The village of Shoreham, which is the next village along from Otford, also nestles in the Darenth Valley, was mooted as a suitable destination. It has its own station, along with three pubs.

With this plan in mind, we’d all purchased return tickets to Shoreham and, were it not for my desire to complete the North Downs Way, this would have been the ideal place to end our walk, before taking the train home. To my mind though, the miles put in by partially re-tracing our outward route, could be put to better use by continuing eastwards, along the NDW to the village of Wrotham.

For me, Wrotham, with its nearby rail connection at Borough Green, would be a far better place to end the walk, as not only would it mean completion of a further four miles of the trail, it would also provide a suitable starting point for the next station. 

I’d already explained my idea to the walk leader who, having completed the NDW several years before, fully understood the thinking behind it. I therefore bade farewell to my companions, and set off towards Wrotham. It was shortly after 2pm, so I was certain of reaching my destination before dusk. There was also a reward awaiting me at the end of the walk in the form of the Bull Hotel. This was the only one of  Wrotham’s three pubs I had not set foot in, but one which looked particularly appealing so, armed with my OS Guide, off I went, passing through a mixture of woodland and open countryside.

I am quite happy walking by myself, as I can set my own pace, stop for a drink from my water bottle or nip behind a suitable tree to get rid of the excess. I kept up a reasonable pace, finding the trail well-marked and easy to follow. After approximately a mile and a half, the route suddenly descends from the hilltops, by means of a steep path. It then continues in an easterly direction, along the bottom of the escarpment, along a rough, but quite firm track, all the way to Wrotham.

Although the views were nowhere near as impressive, the firm going underfoot allowed me to make good progress, and true to form I arrived in Wrotham before the light had started to fade.  The lack of impressive scenery, meant there was no need to  stop and take photos. I was also keen to press on, especially as an annoying light drizzle has started to set in. I found my way to the Bull, making note along the way as to where I needed to start the next section of the NDW, whenever that might be.

The Bull is an imposing and well-appointed hotel, parts of which are said to date back to the 14^th Century. Today, it has a good reputation for food, but is also known for stocking a reasonable selection of beers, often sourced from small breweries. With this in mind I was a little concerned about the state of my footwear, even though I’d managed to remove most of the excess along the second part of the walk.

I needn’t have worried though, as there was a stone floor running from the door towards the well-stocked bar. Even more comforting was the presence of two Old Dairy beers on the bar, Red Top and Über Brew. I opted for the latter, pale in colour and refreshingly hoppy in taste. It was well worthy of a 3.5 NBSS.

The best seats in the pub were occupied by two groups of drinkers, some of whom had dogs with them. The latter is always a good sign that the establishment is not too pretentious. I asked if it was OK to sit in the dining part of the pub, and was told it was fine, apart from at the one large table with the reserved sign.

I settled down to enjoy my pint, congratulate myself on completing this section of the trail, and then use my phone to check the train times from Borough Green and the time it would take me to walk there. There was sufficient time to finish my pint, but not really enough for another.

I therefore set off, but not before dinning my waterproof, as I could see through the window that  it had started to rain quite heavily. Fortunately the road out of the village, as well as the main A227 was well-lit with a proper footpath for pedestrians. I reached the station with time to buy a ticket and catch the train back towards Otford.

I received an enquiry regarding my progress, via WhatsApp, from the group of friends I’d started out with. I sent them a photo of the Bull and also a picture of my pint. They were ensconced in the second of Shoreham’s three pubs and judging by the photos, getting stuck into the beers. I was on a nice warm train, heading back home, secure in the knowledge that son Matthew would be waiting in his car, outside Tonbridge station, ready to pick me up at .

It had been an enjoyable walk, but I’m glad there wasn’t that long slog up the hill, towards my house, to end it off.

Drunk in charge

It’s a  brave, or perhaps foolish, man or woman who writes a post about the vexed subject of children in pubs. Pub Curmudgeon wrote such a piece just the other day, and I believe it is one of several articles he’s produced over the years about the joys, or otherwise of kids running amok whilst he’s trying to enjoy a drink.

I too got myself into hot water after writing a post about badly behaved children causing havoc in an award-winning, working man’s club; even though I was quite rightly apportioning blame to the parents/guardians who were supposed to be looking after them. I also questioned the non-intervention of the club staff, receiving perhaps the most criticism for not having raised the matter myself, with the club’s officials.

What happens though when the boot is on the other foot, and it is the adults who find themselves in the dock, for being “drunk in charge of a child?” Believe it or not, there is such an offence, as according to a licensing act from 1902, it is illegal to be drunk while in charge of a child under the age of seven. Anyone found in contravention of the rules can face a fine – or even a month behind bars.

Enter everyone’s favourite bargain-priced pub-chain, JD Wetherspoon, where one of their outlets has put its own spin on this 118 year old piece of legislation, by limiting  parents from buying more than two alcoholic drinks if they have children with them.  

The pub in question is the Robert Pocock in Gravesend, Kent, which brought in the two-drink limit because parents were letting their children run around uncontrolled. A poster at the pub said they were “Protecting children from harm,” and added, ‘Therefore adults in charge of children will be allowed to have one alcoholic drink and a further alcoholic drink with a sit down meal.”

All very draconian you might think, and the poster provoked the predictable cries of “outraged” parents, but apparently it’s nationwide policy for Wetherspoon’s, which individual managers can choose to enforce. The policy has been in place for some time, but has not been followed rigorously in the past.

The poster which sparked the controversy, has since been taken down, but the limit still remains in place. A representative for the Robert Pocock stated that, “After the limit has been reached, staff have the legal right to refuse service of alcohol."

A JD Wetherspoon spokesman said: "The manager took the decision to put the poster in the pub to emphasise to customers that she would not allow parents to drink while their children were running round uncontrolled in the pub. The notice had a positive effect, with mostly good feedback."

Now I’m not going to get mired in this particular controversy, particularly as my views on Brexit-fixated Tim Martin, are well known. I have once set foot inside the Robert Pocock,  and whilst I would describe it as not one of JDW’s “better outlets,” my sole visit was over 10 years ago, and the pub may well have improved since then.

The only thing I will say is let he, or she, who is without sin, cast the first stone. Mrs PBT’s and I once nearly left son Matthew in the back of a taxi, as we more or less fell out of the vehicle, after returning from a “good lunch” with friends.

Our poor deprived son was also nearly sat on once, whilst he slept in his pushchair, at a party held in an outdoor barn. Yes it was dark, drink had again been taken, and fortunately no harm was done, but didn’t former Prime Minister David (call me “Dave”) Cameron, also once leave his daughter behind at the pub, following a Sunday lunchtime drink?  

We’re only human after all, as the Rag’n’Bone Man sang; even the man whose over-inflated ego proved to be far greater than his intellect - to the detriment of us all!

A good roasting at the Nelson

Scrolling through some of the photos I’ve taken on my new phone reminded me that I hadn’t posted anything about last Sunday’s post-Christmas lunch; the one arranged by West Kent CAMRA. As referred to in an earlier post, the event took place at the recently re-vamped Nelson Arms, in Tonbridge, which ensured that a good selection of  beers would be available to go with our meal.

Twenty branch members and friends attended, and landlord Matt and his team did a brilliant job of squeezing us all in at the Public Bar end of the pub. Being mid-January the Christmas lunch option had  expired (everyone's sick of turkey by New Year's Eve), but the Nelson had its usual Sunday roast offering  available instead.

All three members of the Bailey family opted for the slow roast pulled-pork, complete with crackling, roast potatoes and seasonal vegetables. The meal was well cooked and there was plenty of it. I pushed the boat out and had ice-cream for dessert, but on reflection the apple crumble and custard would have been a better choice – even though I always seem to go for a crumble.

There was an interesting selection of beers to go with the food as well. Matt had obtained three beers from Scottish brewer, Fyne Ales; a decision taken in advance of the forthcoming Tonbridge Beer Weekend. I enjoyed two of them – Avalanche plus the legendary Jarl. The former is a 4.5% Pale Ale, whilst Jarl is a 3.8% Session Blonde. It is also one of Fyne’s flagship beers.

I later moved on to Kent Brewery’s excellent and full-bodied Porter. This 5.5% dark ale has undertones of coffee and chocolate, and was just the beer to finish the session. This was despite being tempted by the Audit Ale from Lacon’s Brewery, which was still on sale three days after I initially encountered it. Weighing in at 8%, and coming on top of the other beers, it wouldn't have been a good idea.

As I said, the turnout was good and afforded the opportunity of catching up with several old friends and acquaintances. Mrs PBT’s enjoyed the event too. She was born and grew up in a house in the next road, back from the Nelson, and was pleased to see several of her late mother’s old neighbours. I’m sure if you asked her nicely, she’ll tell you tales about sitting out on the pub step, as a child, with a bottle of pop and a packet of crisps – but perhaps not!

As us diners finished our meal, Matt and his staff cleared the area, and the big screen came down. I gather there was some sort of football match taking place between a team from Manchester and one from Liverpool. More importantly, the third Test between England and South Africa, was being screened in the other bar.

The Nelson is like that; a real community pub, catering for the Barden Road area of Tonbridge. You can fully understand why it was so important to people in this part of town, that a group of residents banded together to help save it, after Shepherd Neame called time on the pub, a few years ago. It was their determination, combined with licensees Matt and Emma’s drive, and of course, hard cash, that brought it back from the brink.