Marching down from the top of the hill to the Grand old Duke of York

I nipped over to Tunbridge Wells on the bus, last Monday. It was a miserable day, weather-wise, although the rain fortunately held off long enough to allow me to set the Christmas lights up, outside the house.The reason for my trip was to return a pair of shoes that I’d bought online. They shoes were made by Clarks and I’d picked them up at the end of last month, at a heavily discounted price, in the company’s so-called "Black Friday" sale.

The shoes were delivered, ahead of schedule, but when I tried them on, they were uncomfortable and too far too narrow, especially across the widest part of my foot. In some respects, this serves me right as whilst the Clarks website did show several photos, taken from different angles, it was difficult to know whether they would fit, or how they would feel on my feet. This was in spite of the ability to enlarge the photos, on the site.

So, a lesson learned as, in a way, I broke my own rule about not buying clothing or footwear online. The clue is there folks – you can’t try the items on, prior to buying, no matter how large the discount! Fortunately, there was the opportunity of returning them, so there was no real harm done, and reading the small print, I discovered I could return the shoes to a local store.

This certainly beat the hassle of having them to be couriered back to Clarks and was also the perfect opportunity of calling in at one of Tunbridge Wells’ many pubs. I travelled over by bus, from a stop that is just three minutes’ walk from my house, taking full advantage of the free travel afforded by my bus pass. I alighted a short distance away from the company’s Tunbridge Wells shop, where I not only managed to return my “uncomfortably tight” pair of shoes, but also managed to exchange them for a pair that fitted well, and comfortably too.

Mission accomplished, I decided it was time for that rewarding pint of beer, I had been looking forward to, since lunchtime. The rain that had been quite light earlier on, turned heavier, so taking advantage once again of my free travel pass, I hopped on a bus, for a quick three-stop ride down to the town’s historic Pantile’s area. I was making for the Duke of York, an early 18^th Century pub, on a prominent corner site, close to the historic Chalybeate spring, that established Tunbridge Wells as a spa town.

I have used the pub on and off, over the years, but in 2012 it went considerably upwards in my estimation, when it was bought by London brewers, Fullers. I had it in my sights last Monday, as providing the chance of a pint of the brewery’s famed ESB, and when I walked in, and embraced the Duke’s warm, inner glow, the pub and the beer did not disappoint.

 

A welcoming log fire was blazing
away at the far end of the bar, whilst the bar, that runs virtually the entire length of the back wall, was festooned with Christmas decorations. A bank of five hand-pulls adorned the counter, offering a range of beers that included Dark Star and Gale's, as well as Fuller’s. I of course went for the ESB, which despite retailing at £5 a pint, was well worth it. Full-bodied and satisfying, and packed with rich, juicy malt flavours, I had forgotten just how good this beer, which was once Britain’s strongest, regularly brewed draught bitter, could be.

There was a reasonable amount of people in the Duke of York, particularly for a damp and dismal Monday afternoon, but the pub wasn’t crowded, by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps it was the soft glow of the fire, or the twinkling of the lights from the Christmas tree, by the door, but the bar that afternoon, possessed a real feeling of warmth and contentment, which not only added to the general atmosphere, but was also something that is hard to describe at times.

It was difficult to take photos, without making it too obvious, and in this respect, I admit I’m nowhere near as adept at surreptitious photography as seasoned "pub tickers” such as Retired Martin or Simon Everitt (BRAPA). So, short of standing up and pointing my phone in the general direction of people, who might not want to be photographed, the internal scenes of the Duke of York, captured here, are the best I managed to come up with.

There wasn’t time to stay for a second pint, or the visit another pub, especially as “dad’s taxi” had been booked to pick son Matthew up after work. His car was awaiting repair. So, after consulting my Arriva Bus App, I walked up to stop outside the rail station in order to catch the bus, back to Tonbridge.

I missed the No. 402 bus, because I was unable to read the number and destination displayed on the front of it. My glasses had steamed up, as a result of the mask I was wearing. The sensible thing would have been to have not fitted it until just prior to boarding, but I dislike having to keep faffing around with the wretched thing. Unfortunately, waiting for the next bus meant missing my connection in Tonbridge, by a couple of minutes.

The latter was a local bus that would have saved me a 20-minute, uphill walk, but the exercise did me good, and it had stopped raining.  I still arrived home in time to drop off my new shoes, pick up the car and then drive back down into Tonbridge, to collect young master Matthew. 

Before finishing, I’d like to share a few facts with you, about Clarks Shoes, and my association with this iconic brand of footwear. The company was founded in 1825, at Street in Somerset, by two brothers Cyrus and James Clark. It might sound strange, but it was one of the first companies to offer proper, “foot-shaped” shoes. In 1873, James’ son William mechanised the shoe making process, and by 1910, Clarks had become a “must-have” brand for the fashion conscious.

When my sister and I were growing up, our parents insisted on buying Clarks shoes for us, but it was only recently that I discovered the reason why. It was in the early 1940’s, that one of the company’s directors developed a foot measuring system for children, that ensured that shoes were fitted correctly. I mentioned about having my feet measured in a blog I wrote, back in April, describing my purchase of a brand-new pair of walking boots. They were Meindl, rather than Clarks,but the principle remains the same.

Today, Clarks shoes are once again being made in Somerset, following a 12-year hiatus, when production was transferred to the Far East. The company has changed hands a number of times since the start of the new century, and is no longer family owned, but it remains in the collective consciousness of many of us, especially those who spend large amounts of time on their feet.

 

Elephants never forget - especially when there's Harvey's Old Ale involved!

After being disappointed last week, in my quest for some Harvey’s Old, this week’s foray into the border country between Kent and Sussex proved a lot more successful. Son Matthew’s car is off the road at the moment, due to a broken rear suspension coil.

We’re pretty certain that the damage has been caused by the “traffic calming” speed bumps that have been a feature of the roads around Bailey Towers for as long as I can remember, and we do question the need for these double-sided ramps, given that traffic normally progresses slowly, given the number of parked cars on both sides of the road.

The long and the short of it was that Matthew asked if I could run him over to Tunbridge Wells to pick up some shopping – a request I was happy to oblige with, seeing as there were some DIY items I needed to buy, as well. An idea had already formed in my mind that once the shopping was complete, we could go in search of Harvey’s Old, by taking a drive out to Hook Green. 

 

The latter is a tiny hamlet on the B2169 road, between Lamberhurst and Tunbridge Wells, and is home to the Elephant’s Head, a fine old Harvey’s pub of many years’ standing. If anywhere was likely to have Old Ale on sale, then this pub would be the place. A visit to the Elephant’s Head would also allow me to renew my acquaintance with a pub that I haven’t been in for a decade or more.

There’s a reason for that, and it’s the relative remoteness of Hook Green and the difficulty of getting there by public transport. I’d arrived on foot for my last visit, after walking to the pub across country, with a couple of friends, from Wadhurst station. Sunday was different – I had the car, and as I would just be having the one pint, driving was the way to go.

We witnessed a bit of drama on the way, running into a large number of police vehicles and even more PCs on foot, after cutting through from Tunbridge Wells’ industrial estate towards Pembury. We later found out a murder had taken place in the vicinity, following a disturbance in the early hours of Sunday morning. It isn’t perhaps the nicest part of Tunbridge Wells, but back in the late 1980’s, I worked just down the road from where the incident occurred, and it never struck me as being that bad.

We carried on towards Pembury, and then picked up the A21 towards Hastings. Turning off, just passed Lamberhurst, we were soon pulling into the car park of the Elephant’s Head, after passing two other pubs on the way. I was pleased to see the Brown Trout on the edge of Lamberhurst was still open, along with the Vineyard at Lamberhurst Down. The latter was formerly known as the Swan but changed its name due to the proximity of Lamberhurst Vineyards. The pub is part of the Elite Pubs group, which probably tells you all you need to know.

It was raining when we arrived, but not hard enough to deter me from taking a few photos of the pub’s attractive exterior. It is a half-timbered, former Wealden Farmhouse, with the lower half constructed out of large and perfectly cut, blocks of local sandstone. When I first knew the place, it was a free house belonging to the nearby Bayham Estate. Today, of course the pub is tied to Harvey’s, although I’m not sure when they acquired it.

Back in the days when the estate owned the Elephant’s Head, it was about as traditional as you can get, with bare stone walls, flagstone floors and a public and saloon bar. I cycled there from Paddock Wood, for my first visit, which must have been in the very early 1980’s, when I was living in Maidstone. 

The bars were eventually knocked into one, and some other modifications made to the internal layout, but it remained a fine old country pub. Harvey’s added a conservatory at the rear, which provided some much-needed space particularly for diners, but apart from that they left the pub pretty much as it was.

And that is how Matthew and I found it on Sunday afternoon. Even better, stepping inside was as if I had never been away, with that cosy and comfortable feel, instantly recognisable. Looking around the pub, it seemed reasonably busy, but nowhere near as packed as I feared it might have been, on a Sunday afternoon. Perhaps all those people who should have been supporting their local pubs, were the ones causing the major traffic congestion on the North Farm industrial estate.

After that quick scan of the interior, my eyes fixated on the bar top, where the welcome sight of the red pump-clip, for Harvey’s XXXX Old Ale greeted me, and gladdened my heart. I ordered myself a pint, whilst Matthew went for something cold and fizzy – Amstel, it said on the font, but the last authentic Amsterdam-brewed beer of that name, must have been the stuff I was drinking, back in the mid-70’s.

The barmaid asked if we would be eating – an easy assumption to make, especially on a Sunday afternoon, but we weren’t the only ones “just here for the beer,” as we soon got talking to a couple, sitting at the bar, but round the corner, adjacent to the smouldering open fire, with its unusual, raised hearth. “Nice and welcoming, when you first come in, but it quickly becomes too warm, and you have to move away,” was their opening remark. Asking how I knew the Elephant’s Head, I informed them that I had worked for a company in nearby Lamberhurst, back in the late 1980’s. It turned out they lived in the village and had walked to the pub across the fields – a sensible thing to do in my book.

They had moved to Lamberhurst, from London, and lived up the hill, in the old part of the village, and a couple of doors down from the closed Horse & Groom pub. I told them how I used to drink there, when I worked at Crown Chemicals – a veterinary pharmaceutical company, just down the road.

They in turn said that their near neighbours, who bought the former pub, have kept the interior of one of the bars, pretty much as it was when it was still trading. It’s a shame it closed, but its days were numbered when owners, Shepherd Neame, purchased the Chequers, a much larger former coaching inn, in the centre of the village.

The Old tasted every bit as good as it looked. I scored it at 4.25 on Untappd, although I’m not sure what that equates to on CAMRA’s NBSS scale. Had I not been driving, I would have stayed for another, but that would have been foolish. Instead, I savoured the pint I had in front of me, whilst looking around and appreciating the timeless atmosphere of this lovely old country inn.

Near the beginning of this piece, I mentioned the difficulty of getting to Hook Green by bus, but earlier today, whilst visiting Tunbridge Wells, I noticed a bus service running to Wadhurst. The latter is a small Wealden town, situated to the south-west of Lamberhurst and so, with my bus anorak’s hat on, I carried out a spot of online research.

I am now pleased to confirm that the No. 256 bus, that operates between Tunbridge Wells and Lamberhurst, passes through Hook Green, with a stop just a few hundred yards down the road from the Elephant’s Head. It also stops at the Vineyard pub, next to Lamberhurst Vineyards. With these points in mind, I can feel a return trip to the Elephant’s Head, coming on very soon. (That will teach Mrs PBT’s for teasing me about being a “bus w*nker!”)

 

In London for a night of slight over-indulgence!

Christmas parties are like buses, you wait two years and then several come along at once, and when the parties involve a full-on sit-down meal, then memories of the Vicar of Dibley, Christmas Special, start flooding back. There’s something about that episode that I find disturbing, watching Dawn French conveying the obvious discomfort felt by the Reverend Geraldine Granger at having to force down three gargantuan Christmas meals, so as not to offend her caring, but rather overbearing parishioners, and I still feel uneasy just thinking about it.

It’s possibly something to do with being made to eat everything that was on one’s plate, at school dinner time, but fortunately there were no such Billy Bunter-like episodes connected with the two Christmas meals I attended. They were on consecutive days-hence my original reference, but they were completely different occasions, with the only common factor being they were Christmas dinners where the potential to consume beer in slightly more than modest amounts, was involved.

As things turned out, I did indeed over-indulge at the first event, but was the moderate to the point of zero consumption at the second one. So, let’s kick off with the first, which was the British Guild of Beer Writer’s Annual Awards evening, and was a lavish event, held in the equally lavish surroundings of an opulent, central London venue.

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This was only my second event, since joining the Guild. Last year’s bash was “virtual” and one, or possibly two years prior to that I was unable to attend primarily due to it clashing with other events. This year’s awards ceremony took place at One Great George Street, an imposing stone-faced edifice, just a stone’s throw away from Parliament Square. The building has links with the Institution of Civil Engineers, and its first floor Great Hall, an impressive conference room and function space, was the venue for the dinner and presentation of awards.

Walking along to the venue, on a bitterly cold, early December evening, I paused to reflect that the last time I’d been in the vicinity was in October 2019, as part of a large, pro EU demonstration. With thousands of others, I’d stood in Parliament Square, listening to an array of different speakers, just as an amendment was being passed in the nearby House of Commons, that effectively blocked Prime Minister Johnson’s proposed EU withdrawal bill.

The country came close to stepping back from a damaging hard-Brexit, but the euphoria didn’t last, as just a few days later, Lib-Dem leader, Jo Swinson, buoyed up by recent polls, tabled a motion for a general election, thereby playing directly into the hands of Johnson and his then chief fixer, Dominic Cummings. The rest unfortunately is history. Swinson lost her seat, with Johnson and the Tories returned with a large majority after promising to “Get Brexit done.”

As we all know, that has gone swimmingly well, but getting back to the event, I ended up walking past the building, but this only became evident, when the street name changed. After retracing my steps, a lady waiting by the entrance steps, asked if I was looking for the Beer Writer’s Guild Meeting, because if I was, it was straight up the steps. I thanked her and made my way inside, and later on we found ourselves sitting next to each other at dinner.

I won’t name-drop, but the lady in question is a member of CAMRA’s National Executive. I say that because I recognised her name. We had an interesting discussion about the Campaign, where I explained my reasons for resigning. I’m not going to give anything else away, apart from saying she was good company, as were all the other persons on the table – a list that included one well-known beer writer who I have got to know following a visit to Amsterdam in 2016, for what proved to be the final European Beer Writer’s Conference.

Before the meal, there were plenty of beers to enjoy in two of the adjoining, downstairs function rooms. The beers were generously supplied by the event sponsors and up alongside the big names such as Asahi, Budweiser, Carlsberg-Marston’s, Greene King, Heineken, and Shepherd Neame, there were smaller players such as Adnams, Allsopp’s and Harvey’s. It was two casks from Allsopp’s that caught my eye, as I entered the room, so what better way to start the evening off, than to try a half of each.

There’s a story behind this one as Allsopp’s were a famous brewer, based in Burton-on-Trent. They were renowned for their India Pale Ale, and at one time  had the largest brewery in Britain. Towards the end of the 19^th Century, Allsopp’s tried their hand at brewing lager.  becoming in the process, a pioneering lager brewery. They were half a century too early though, as Britain in the early 1900’s  wasn’t ready for this continental upstart, style of a beer .

The Allsopp family eventually lost control of the company, and in 1934 merged with Ind Coope, another famous Burton brewer. The merged company adopted Allsopp’s famous Red Hand logo as its symbol, but the Allsopp name disappeared completely in 1959, a few years before the merger with Ansell’s and Tetley, that created Allied Breweries.

A few years ago, Jamie Allsopp, the great-great-great-great-great grandson of founder Samuel Allsopp, decided to relaunch the family business, and after tracking down what was probably the only remaining ledger containing the original brewing recipes, and purchasing the trademarks, produced the first test brews at the beginning of 2020 – right at the start of the pandemic!

I had a brief chat with Jamie, whose stand represented the only cask offerings that evening, and sampled the relaunched Allsopp’s Pale Ale 4.0% along with the India Pale Ale, at 5.0%. I moved on to the Asahi stand, followed by that of Heineken, who are now the owner of both Brixton and Beavertown breweries. My final point of call was Carlsberg-Marston’s, and I was enjoying a glass of their Mildly Saline, Kölsch-Style beer, brewed by London Fields, when a gong rang out, summoning us upstairs, for the meal.

Each of the sumptuous three courses was accompanied by a carefully selected matching beer, which went as follows. Sea bass starter, paired with Utopian Ten Degrees Czechia Session Lager 3.9%. The roast lamb rump main, was washed down with Wolf Dark Scottish Ale 6.0%, from Windswept Brewing of Lossiemouth, whilst the chocolate fondant with morello cherry compote dessert had the high-octane, 11% Waiting for the Rain Imperial Stout, from Loch Lomond Brewery to end the meal with.

There was quite a surfeit of the later beer, which I perhaps rather foolishly indulged in, alongside a glass or two of Roosters Roots Rock Reggae Pineapple & Grapefruit IPA 6.4%. The latter was the beer chosen to accompany the vegetarian option main course, but as there were several cans knocking around on the table, it would have been rude not to have tried it!

The awards presentations then followed, and one winner worthy of mention was Matt Rogers, editor of CAMRAngle – the branch magazine of Slough, Windsor & Maidenhead CAMRA. Matt had introduced himself to me, downstairs in the bar, prior to dinner, and given me a copy of the latest edition. The SIBA Award for Brewer of the Year, went to John Hatch, who single-handedly has kept the tradition of brewing alive at the old Young’s Ram Brewery site, in Wandsworth, and should you so desire, you can find out who else won what by logging onto the Guild website here.

One observation that came out from the event that concerned the Guild in general, and one that was discussed further between me and my CAMRA NE dinner companion, was the contrast between the two organisations. CAMRA has a largely

male membership, the majority of whom are over 50, with a significant proportion of that number, the wrong side of 60. The Guild, on the other hand, has a much younger membership, with a significant number of female members.

This was evident, from just looking around the Great Hall, and is encouraging because it lays rest to the myth that beer is largely a man’s drink, and the brewing and hospitality industries, largely male preserves. I won’t say anymore here, but I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions as to where this leaves CAMRA.

I wandered back downstairs after the presentations. I sampled a few more beers, and also stuffed a few bottles and cans into my rucksack, to take home. The sponsoring brewers were quite happy to part with some of their wares, as it not only brigs them to the further attention of an appreciative audience, but also means there is less for them to pack up and return at the end of the evening.

I made my way back along Whitehall, to Charing Cross, and boarded the 23.40 train. I was very conscious of not falling asleep, as the train was destined for Ashford, but the beer had got the better of me. So, despite having my earphones in place, and the volume on my phone turned up, I still dozed off.

Fortunately, I awoke with a start, just as the train was pulling into Tonbridge, and managed to make a reasonably dignified exit onto the platform. Ashford was not the place I wanted to be stranded at, in the early hours of a freezing cold December morning, so either the gods were smiling on me, or basic instinct kicked in. Such are the joys of an occasional beery evening in the big city, and the perils of a train journey home, afterwards!

 

 

The best laid plans, you win some, you lose some, or any port in a storm!

It’s the same every year that come the autumn, I start to develop a craving for Harvey’s Old Ale. This delectable dark brew has a moderate strength of 4.3% ABV but is packed full of lush flavours from the mixture of roasted malts and rich dark brewing sugars, used in the brew. For me the beer is the perfect accompaniment as the nights start drawing in, and the days become colder.

Finding Harvey’s Old is not as easy as it should be, as each year I get to November without coming across any, and a glance at 2021’s calendar informs me we are now only a few days away from December! The trouble is Old Ale only ever seems to feature in Harvey’s own tied pubs, even though I’m sure the beer is available to those free trade customers that want it.

To make matters worse, there aren’t any of the brewery's pubs close to where I live, although some are only a train or bus ride away. It was the bus that would be my saviour, when I discovered I could travel direct from Tonbridge to the rather upmarket village of Chipstead, just on the edge of Sevenoaks. Chipstead is home to two pubs, one of which is the Bricklayer’s Arms, a Harvey’s tied pub, and a look on the pub’s website confirmed that Old Ale is normally available.

The Arriva 401-bus service only operates on Sundays, which was ideal for me, so after earning a few brownie points repositioning the tarpaulin that is protecting our shed roof, and then enjoying a substantial brunch, I wandered down into Tonbridge to wait for the bus. It was rather chilly out and to make matters worse, the bus was running around 10 minutes late, but after I boarded, it became snarled up in traffic on Tonbridge’s industrial estate.

The reason behind this was the town’s annual festival for switching on the Christmas lights. The High Street was closed to virtually all traffic – hence the diversion through the industrial estate, so there was nothing to do but sit on the bus, and grin and bear it. I did make a mental note though to leave the bus at the top end of the High Street, on the return journey.

The bus eventually arrived in Chipstead, and despite having a list of the stops displayed on the Arriva route-map on my phone, I still managed to miss the one I was looking for. The sun was very low in the sky, which dazzled me, and by the time I’d realised the bus was heading out of the village.

It was no great deal, as it wasn’t far to walk back into Chipstead and find the pub. I asked the driver whether the delays in Tonbridge were likely to have a knock-on effect on the return journey. Unfortunately, "yes" was her reply as she was already half hour behind schedule. I made a note of this for the homeward journey.

I made my way towards the pub, which is known as the “Brick’s,” by the locals, but as I became nearer, the lack of lights in any of the windows, should have rung alarm bells. I stopped on the green, in front of the pub to take some exterior photos, but as I walked towards it, I realised it was closed. A notice outside informed passers-by that, “Due to unforeseen circumstances we have had to close the pub. We will be open again Thursday 2^nd December, as usual.”

I’d checked the pub website, the night before, but hadn’t thought to consult their Facebook Page. Covid sprang to mind, and this was confirmed on Monday morning, by a work colleague who lives in Sevenoaks. I put plan B into action and walked up to the George & Dragon. I had already clocked it from the bus window, as the driver skilfully negotiated her way down the narrow hill, leading to the village centre.

It was only five minutes’ walk away. The downside was WhatPub described it as very much a "food-led” pub, so with this in mind, I entered the G&D, after first stopping to take a few photos. The interior was pleasant enough, despite being slightly on the chintzy side, but unfortunately the photos I took were out of focus – I’m not very good at taking pictures “on the hoof!”

The pub was reasonably full inside, but not packed to the gunwales, so the request I received for me to sit outside, after ordering my pint, was rather strange. This instruction came once the staff had ascertained that I was only there for a drink, rather than a meal, and was not at all customer friendly, in my book.

There was just the one beer on – Westerham Grasshopper, which was in good form, but expensive at £5.28 a pint. Even stranger than being shoved out in the garden, was what happened next. I went to pay for my beer and offered a £10 note. To my astonishment, the young barmaid replied that she couldn’t give me change, as it was “company policy.” I told her that at over £5 a pint the beer was already expensive enough, and she could think again if she expected me to pay a tenner for it!

Smiling sweetly, not that I could see much behind her face mask, she said they could set up a tab, if I wished - I didn't! Alternatively, I could pay by card! Card it was then, but in almost half a century of pub going, I have never come across a pub (or any other establishment for that matter), that was unable, or unwilling to give me change!

I bit the bullet and headed out into the well-laid out garden, at the rear of the pub. The rear patio was completely in the shade and hence freezing cold. I was properly dressed against the cold, with a warm, quilted winter coat, on top of a thick fleece. I was also wearing a hat. I wasn’t the only customer banished to the garden, as some of my fellow alfresco drinkers were in the same boat.

It turned out that one group was a party of diners who had arrived early. They’d been sent outside to wait for a table to become free. The saving graces were it wasn’t raining, and there were a number of strategically placed, infrared, space heaters – not particularly eco-friendly and not that effective either.

I switched mine on and moved my chair as close as possible to the meagre source of heat. At least I was warmer than the two young ladies who popped outside for their nicotine fix, clad in the flimsiest of floral, summer dresses, as if they were heading off to the local May Ball.

I checked the likely departure of my bus, using the Arriva App, and discovered the next one was running 20 minutes late. Unwilling to shell out for another pint, I decided to leave in plenty of time, the thinking being the uphill walk would warm me up. I popped back inside the pub first though, to make use of the facilities, before heading up to the bus stop.

It was a good job I left when I did, as the bus actually turned up at its stated time, so I’m not sure why the App was saying otherwise. I had a relaxing ride back to Tonbridge, alighting opposite Tonbridge School, as decided earlier, on the outward journey.

I waked along to Tonbridge Castle, pausing on top of the castle ramparts to observe the crowds in the High Street below. The market stalls in the castle grounds had already packed up, so not wishing to get caught up in the crowds, I cut through the park and headed for home.

Looking at my Smartwatch I’d clocked up just over 12,500 steps, which wasn’t a bad day’s walking, but with the Brick’s shut, no Harvey’s Old and one of the most surreal pub visits ever, I was glad to be home with the welcoming prospect of a nice roast pork dinner to look forward to.