The pies have it

As I haven’t even started writing up our most recent Oz adventures (I’m currently battling with a backlog of photos, but it’s coming), it does seem a little premature to be talking about how much I miss it. But I do; the place and, most especially, the people. Something that gets more acute with every visit. In fact I was beginning to worry, given the amazing time we had, that getting back to the UK would seem like some terrible anti-climax.

Thankfully we were greeted on our descent into Heathrow with stunning views along the river Thames as it meandered through the heart of London. Making my heart beat a little faster as I picked out all the iconic landmarks along the route. And, as we neared our destination, the spectacle of the sun rising over the endless green fields sent a shiver down my spine. Although that could have been because I couldn't turn that irritating blower thing off.

In order to make the culture shock seem a little less painful, I decided we should make the most of the streak of glorious weather that heralded our return - including sneaking in a trip to see the last of the bluebells at Ashridge - by immersing ourselves fully in the most British of pastimes; pies, pints and sitting outside at the pub. If anything was going to lift us from our post-holiday malaise I felt it was going to be best bitter and meat and potatoes.

The first pie we tried to help ease ourselves back into familiar waters – yes, the Aussies are famously fans of a pastry product, but served with ketchup and a cold lager, which isn’t quite the same thing at all – was at the Flower Pot in Aston, about half way between Henley and Hurley.

The Ewing hadn’t experienced its eccentric delights before, and was very taken with all the eclectic collection of taxidermy in the dining room, including giant carp and a couple of boar heads mounted on the wall.

I was more interested in the beer. As a Brakspear pub, they offer a roster of their real ales, including one of my favourite traditional English ales; Brakspear Bitter. This was in perfect condition, bitter-sweet with a backbone of malt and a gentle floral note from the traditional goldings and fuggles hops. 

Unsparkled, it still had a pleasingly tight head and creaminess and, at a modest 3.4 percent, it meant I could sneak an extra pint in while waiting for dinner. Why be a #craftwanker, when you can be a real ale bore.

For me, late spring is the pretty much the perfect time of year to be outside; not yet too hot, just before the wasps really get going and as the tree pollen count is winding down. The perfect time to enjoy a pub garden, and the Flower Pot has a decent one – large with plenty of tables with sun shades and, on our visit, lots of well-behaved dogs, who seemed to be enjoying the sunshine as much as we were.

Shortly we were also joined by two giant wedges of homemade pie from their pie board - one game (pheasant, partridge and turkey) and one rabbit – both served with chips, peas, and lashings of gravy. Firstly, and most importantly, they possessed a crust both top and bottom. Secondly, it was shortcrust, the supreme baked pie pastry (if we’re not including suet pastry, which is more for a steamed pudding) and thirdly the crust was in turns both crispy and stodgy, in the perfect ratio.

Both pies were excellent, being filled generously with chunks of juicy meat in a creamy, well-seasoned sauce. We didn’t encounter any lead shot, but there were a couple of bits of bone in with the bugs, so beware if you shovel your dinner down with rapacity, as I do. Chips were perfectly OK, and generously portioned and who doesn’t love a frozen pea.

Another great thing about the Flower Pot is its proximity to the Thames - my Dad used to meet his rugby mates here for a pint before meandering up the river to the Henley Regatta. The return journey later is one I'm sure wasn't without incident....

Our trip was far more staid. Wondering up to Hambleden Lock, on the other side of the water, all while dodging the mayflies and marvelling at the length of our shadows the slowly setting sun cast into the meadow. 

A few days later we found ourselves in another quintessentially English corner of the country; Wimborne Minster. This time it was to take Granddad out for lunch at the Stocks Inn in nearby Furzehill. We arrived just as the sun was emerging to be greeted by the sight of two men, wearing wide-brimmed floppy straw hats, thatching the roof. Peak English summer. Apart from the part about the sun emerging; which was still a great surprise. Even more so given that it was also the beginning of a bank holiday weekend.

To drink I started with a pint of Ringwood, brewed just down the road. In all honesty, it wasn’t in great nick, tasting flat and a touch vinegary. Far better was the second pint; the veritable Timothy Taylor Landlord, a Yorkshire bitter than seemed to have travelled far better. Landlord remains a perennial favourite for a reason and supping my pint, with its notes of grass and hay, while sitting in the verdant garden watching the thatcher’s at work, it seemed particularly appropriate.

The second pie of the week was Dorset beef and ale. Again, it was a double-cruster and again made with shortcrust pastry. It was a powerfully flavoured pie with a deep, sticky gravy and big chunks of meat. If I had a criticism, it had dried out around the edges and on the bottom crust. While I don’t mind my meat with some chew, the pastry wasn’t quite as squidgy as I like. 

Chips were, again, perfectly OK. There was also a medley of veg, slightly soggy, but of course I showed willing and finished them all, despite no promise of pudding at the end of it. Even Grandad was too stuffed for crumble, although he did take down an entire lamb shank with mash and asparagus.

Of course, while both pies were fabulous, they really weren’t the point here. I was far more interested in ingesting several pints of cellar temperature real ale, after all the schooners of tasteless suds I’d drunk in Oz. Oh, and spending some time in the bucolic English outdoors with some of my very favourite people. There really is no place like home.

Wet and dry at Jackson and Rye

I’ve - somewhat inadvertently, mainly due to illness and Christmas over-indulgence and an attempt to support the Ewing, who's trying to kick the slimline menthols  - managed to get through the year thus far without recourse to an alcoholic beverage. In fact, I didn’t even have a drink to see in the New Year.

While all of this may seem horribly out of character, I can assure you I’m having lunch at one of my favourite pubs next week, and if I’m not several sheets to the wind, ordering a big bowl of chips and gravy, at about five o’clock then feel free to send help.

In the meantime I’ve developed a fried breakfast habit – possibly as it’s a meal that’s still best consumed with gallons of mahogany-coloured tea (unless you’re in the airside Wetherspoons at Gatwick, where a pint of Stella is also mandatory). Handily replacing the strain on my liver with a strain on my arteries.

Sadly, the humble greasy spoon is a dying breed and I was forced to go a bit more upmarket for brekkie on our recent trip to rainy Richmond, choosing the riverside outpost of Jackson and Rye for brunch. And while Marina O’Loughlin didn’t much care for dinner at the Soho branch in her Guardian review, she did like 'the American-style pancakey brunch', which is good enough for me.

We could have started proceedings with a bloody mary, or even a virgin one, but that would have been a bloody shame. Instead we went for the drip coffee, served DIY style with a tray of assorted paraphernalia that felt a bit like a scene in Trainspotting. Bonus points for supplying enough hot water for two large mugs each and for warming the milk, if you like that sort of thing diluting your liquid caffeine.

I took Marina’s advice and chose the pancakes, served with caramelised banana and maple syrup cream, and a side dish of candied maple slab bacon. As soft and puffy as Madonna’s cheeks, these were serious stuff and were some of the best pancakes I have eaten in a while. I particularly liked the banana, which had been bruleed on top with a burnt sugar crust, but was still raw underneath; cooked banana is just Not Nice. Top marks, too for a full syrup jug on the table, which I made full use of.

Bacon was thick cut and smoky, my only real grumble being that, like the pancakes, it was served lukewarm. I haven’t yet reached the age where I’m slavishly obsessed with plates being nuclear temperature and enjoying my food glowing like the sun, but tepid fat on my rasher isn’t that appealing.

The Ewing was thwarted after her first choice of salt beef hash and poached eggs was off the menu and while the waitress and I managed to persuade her the hueuvos rancheros was the next best thing, she remained unconvinced. While not a bad dish, it’s not as much fun trying to eat a crisp corn tortilla - topped with fried eggs, avocado, black beans and hot sauce - with a knife and fork, for breakfast, when you’re really craving a big heap of comfort food. The crispy home fries were very good, though and I applaud any dish that manages to sneak chorizo in before midday.

Overall, while our brunch was a cut above tinned tomatoes and meat paste sausages, it was also slightly less fun - or maybe that was the lack of booze talking. Still, sticking to soft drinks kept the bill commendably low for these parts - 27 quid including very charming, if slightly scatty, service.

Wired with caffeine and satiated with refined carbs and lashings of sugar and saturated fat, we shuffled off in the drizzle for a leisurely walk down the Thames - where I managed to take the above photo that combines Don't Look Know with Alfred Hitchock (one for the film buffs). I could get used to this Dry January lark.