Canterbury Pig Tales

After spending three entertaining and educational (although not especially productive) years in this little corner of Kent, I relish coming back to dear Canters. Especially as now it's without the gnawing fear of missing yet another essay deadline and I don't have to subsist on a diet of 'Spoons beer and a burger - if you think it's cheap now it was a bargainous £2.99 back in the day - and discount buckets of Cherry Veba (RIP, the ultimate alcopop).

With the lack of finances during that time, it's probably a good thing that The Foundry Brewpub was a dim and distant dream. It also shows how far British brewing has come. A decade ago (ok, fifteen years...) Britain's oldest brewers, Faversham's Shepherd Neame, reigned supreme on this patch. Now you can sup Canterbury Lager, Stout and Wheat beers, amongst many others including a brew made with New Zealand hops and a chilli and chocolate Aztec stout, all brewed within the city limits.

The aforementioned lager and nitro stout we tried were good, although the service, while friendly, was pretty confused when we tried to order. A shame, as I was tempted to go back and grab a few bottles of the Foundry Red Rye for takeout, but didn't have the strength to navigate the assorted melee by the bar trying to pay for their lunch.

To be fair most of my waning enthusiasm for the usual English passion for standing in line was because I needed some lunch myself. While a homemade pie platter, a ploughmans or a plate of honey beer braised ribs - as can all to be found on the Foundry's menu - sounded tempting, I knew where we were heading next; to Sun Street, tucked away by the cathedral, home of Pork and Co.

This little takeaway sandwich shop, with a few stools in the window if you want to eat in, is a veritable shrine to the swine. Something that's attested before you even step inside with the trough of shredded pork, complete with head, displayed proudly in the window. 

As well as their signature 14 hour pulled pork in brioche buns, they also offer scotch eggs, sausage rolls, macaroni cheese and salt beef in homemade seeded bagels. Pretty much all the major food groups covered and fibre's overrated anyway (if you're not a salad dodger you can get your choice of porky goodness in a box with greens instead of with bread, but why not live fast and die with diabetes and an impacted colon).

They say a picture tells a thousand words and there's not much more I can add to this one. It was as great as it looked; probably better. If large brewery conglomerates made sandwiches it wouldn't be as good as this one.

Each bun comes with the choice of one sauce and a topping (although you can pimp your roll with extras until its structural integrity collapses). The very chipper guy serving us recommended the apple butter and the chilli slaw, so the Ewing picked the former and I the latter. I also chose the apple sauce and finished it all off with crackling, because who wouldn't finish it with crackling. The Ewing's was adorned with black pud alongside the apple butter (not dairy related but a kind of concentrated fruit spread, and a cinch to make yourself - TE) and more crispy pig skin.

Afterwards a brisk constitutional around the city was in order before I made my first visit - to my eternal shame as I walked past it most days for a year - to St Dunstans church. As well as meeting a charming gentleman - who told us he came here every time he was in Canterbury for solace and a sense of wellbeing - and an Eastern European lady who appeared and began playing a captivating unplanned recital at the piano, it is also the final resting place of Thomas More's head.

 

Afterwards we walked down to the Westgate gardens - via my old house where I reminisced about the days when my housemate Becky got stuck on the flat roof and had to be rescued by the neighbours, drunken space hopper races down the road (I bet the neighbours wish they hadn't been so helpful) and the delights of ice forming inside the windows and chilblains in winter. 

The gardens are lovely; you can walk along the river Stour, take a punt on a punt and, at this time of year, see the Garden of England in full bloom. It's worth a trip just to see the striking oriental plane tree, purportedly over two hundred years old, with its fascinatingly gnarly and bulbous trunk.

Under the shade of the very same tree we stopped to enjoy an impromptu teatime snack, scarfing down a Plump Pilgrim, the south's shameless rip off of Yorkshire stalwart Betty's, Fat Rascal. This, dare I say it and despite its lack of almond teeth and only having one cherry eye, was even better.

Final stop of the day was at the original Bottle Shop - whose bigger brother can be found at the end of the Bermonsdsey Beer Mile - a bijou treasure trove of ales housed in the Goods Shed by Canterbury West station. Whilst local brews are not their forte (we picked up some Mikkller cans and a couple of Tempest and Cloudwater bottles), they did have the Spratwaffler Pale Ale, from Deal, as their beer of the week. A decent recommendation for some light, low ABV drinking that, alongside a bag of Pork and Co's homemade scratchings, made me happy as a pig in the proverbial.

Sussex Charmers

After the veritable bun feast that was Louis' christening, Stealth, the Ewing and I carried on the adventures with our own version of Three Have Fun in a Caravan, by spending a few days in the lovely surrounds of Rye Harbour (minus Dick and the dog. Not a euphemism).

Trying to prove that we could accomplish more than the self perpetuating drink, sleep, suffer repeat spiral (that wasn't helped with a spot of Bank Holiday wine tasting at Chapel Down on the way to Rye), I decreed we should get a dose of sea air and a measure of culture with a visit to Bexhill to see the Ladybird by Design exhibition, celebrating 100 years of Ladybird books, at the De La Warr Pavilion.

The exhibition was a fascinating, and rather dangerous, slice of nostalgia (I'm ancient enough to say that now). Taking us back to the innocent times when blonde-haired blue-eyed children went shopping with mother, learnt about public services such as gas and electricity and got to play with knives, batteries, matches and boiling water. 

For me the best bit was seeing the classic fairy stories such as the Elves and the Shoemaker, Rumplestiltskin and the Runaway Pancake; perennial favourites that my Dad used to read to me each night as a young child. And whilst the run is finished in Bexhill, you can catch it in London  from 10 July – 27 September 2015. 

Even without the healthy dose of reminiscence, the building itself is well worth a visit being a Modernist gem, especially of a blued-skied spring day such as that of our trip. On hearing of it's opening George Bernard Shaw exclaimed; 'Delighted to hear that Bexhill has emerged from barbarism at last, but I shall not give it a clean bill of civilisation until all my plays are performed there once a year at least.'

Another sign of the town's continued emergence from its faded dog days (it's an ongoing process) was our lunch at Bistro45, an unassuming little Belgian spot set just back from the sea front. While incongruous from the outside, it turned out to be one of those gems that even prompted Stealth to chide me for not taking pictures of her lunch so I could write about it later. 

From a strong beer selection (both in scope and ABV), we sampled the Affligem - served in it's own special rack, complete with a separate glass for the sediment, to add or drink separately as you wish - as well as pints of Vedett and, one of my favourites, the classic Trappist ale, Orval. 

Mains were moules, obviously. Most of us have some sort of mollusc horror story, but the allure of a well cooked bowl of mussels keeps us coming back for more. My perfect Pastis version, with Pernod, fennel, dill and cream, was a case in point. Rustling bowls of skinny fries and crisp baguette with butter were provided for mopping the creamy, aniseed infused juices at the bottom of the pot.

Stealth went all fancy dan with a mixed seafood pot with extra squid, cockles and prawns. She also, obviously, veered off piste and requested it extra spicy - or in her words 'with loads of Tabasco' - without even a raised eyebrow from the kitchen (I still didn't get any pictures, though).

Whilst it may seem incongruous to have a slice of Flanders on the South Coast - we found out that the dad of the lovely chap that served us was Belgian, and his son had now taken over the running of the place - everything was perfect. They even, on hearing it was her birthday, put a candle in the Ewing's creme brulee and served up Black Jacks and Fruit Salads with the bill.

The nearest pub to our caravan in Rye Harbour was the Inkerman Arms, a resolutely old fashioned  -in a fascinating 70/80s style, rather than olde worlde - sort of place. There was also the bonus of meeting a wonderfully eccentric and friendly bunch of locals, who even tried to persuade us to join them in an evening of drinking discounted Southern Comfort and lemonade at the Social Club followed by a night of karaoke classics.  

As tempting as it sounded, we stuck with the far more staid option of sitting in front of the fire supping pints of Old Dairy bitter, brewed up the road in Tenterden. The best place to be as the springtime showers battered at the windows.

They also serve a menu of home cooked pub staples, with the locals recommending the fresh fish straight off the boats in Hastings. As it was Friday, we chose to have ours beer battered. A tranche of huss for me (not one of my favourites, but a southern classic that remind me of the fish suppers of my youth) and the legendary Rye Bay scallops for the Ewing. All served with the obligatory chips, peas (mushy for me) and homemade tartare sauce. 

Mere words, and not even when accompanied by this strangely day-glo photo, cannot express quite how good these sweet bivalves actually were; so I shan't bother other than to say they blew the deep fried Tasmanian scallops we ate in the harbour in Hobart out the water, and were even better than the Mancunian battered potato slices that also bear the same name. 

A highlight in an remarkably sugar free week was a Saturday morning trip to Knopps, famed hot chocolate purveyors run by the eponymous Dutchman whose name, rather aptly, translates as 'buttons'. Here you can match your poison - from a creamy 34% white chocolate right through to a bitter 100% cocoa with no added sugar, -with all manner of herbs, spices and fruits. Think orange zest, fresh ginger, pink peppercorns or dried lavender, amongst others.

I'm not normally a big hot chocolate fan, but my 64% single origin dark chocolate complete with homemade vanilla marshmallows had me, not very, surreptitiously licking the bowl. The coffee and homemade salted caramel shortbread looked pretty ace, too.

A day spent in Rye itself meant a visit to the Ypres Castle monument, with the Ewing supporting the old adage 'sun's out gun's out', in between the showers. Tucked away next door we found the Ypres Castle Inn, a little gem known locally as the 'Wiper's', with its stunning beer garden looking out across the salt flats to the sea, live music, comfy armchairs (where we resided most of Saturday afternoon, reading our books) and a great selection of local ales. 

The Harveys Sussex best bitter, brewed in Lewes, was one of the best kept pints I have had for a long time. While I do have a fondness for palette wrecking hop forward beers, with all their skunky tropical fruit and stickiness, this is the perfect example of a deliciously well balanced session beer, hopped with British stalwarts, Fuggles, Goldings, Progress and Bramling Cross.

After liking things here so much, we booked ourselves in for the Sunday lunch the following day. And, after waking to blue skies the following morning, decided a walk along the beach and back through the nature reserve would sharpen our perfectly appetites beforehand. 

Three and a half  hot and sweaty hours later - a large part of it lost in a field full of sheep somewhere between Winchelsea and Rye Harbour, although we did get to walk past the magnificent Camber Castle, built by Henry VIII - we finally arrived. Any crossness was quickly dissipated by another pint of Harveys and a huge basket of warm baguette served with a delicious and ridiculously garlicky (although not quite so good when you're staying in a confined space) houmous.

A crispy rolled shoulder of roast lamb was equally fine, as were the accompanying al dente veg, raisin flecked red cabbage and generous amounts of crunchy spuds. The gravy drenched and rather soggy yorkie may have seemed somewhat superfluous, but, after so much unwarranted exercise, I ate it anyway.

Pudding provided yet more delicious carbohydrates with my absolute favourite of all favourite things, spotted dick. While slightly incongruous in the unseasonably warm weather, it was still absolutely, impossibly wondrous, with that lovely springy texture you only get from a proper steamed suet pudding and served with lashings of hot yellow custard.

What better parting shot than a visit to the picture perfect St Thomas' Church in Winchelsea, often disputed as the smallest town in Britain. It's also the last resting place of Spike Milligan, whose tongue-in-cheek gravestone inscription reads, in Gaelic, Dúirt mé leat go raibh mé breoite. Or, I told you I was ill.

XT Brewery and the Eight Bells

Saturday sun came early one morning

In a sky so clear and blue

Saturday sun came without warning

So no-one knew what to do

Well, that last line wasn’t completely true. When the winter sun shines then what better than a brewery visit to stock up on festive supplies, followed by a boozy afternoon at the pub.

The brewery in question was XT, based at Notley farm way up in the wilds of North Bucks. We normally manage to make at least one visit at this time of year, as our Christmas guests have become rather partial to their beers; and I don’t mind a drop, either.

While our last visit was so foggy you could barely see past the pint in your hand, this time we were blessed with one of those glorious December mornings – brilliant blue skies, a crisp frost on the green fields – that made driving through the chocolate box villages, with their thatched cottages and wood smoke curling from the chimneys, an utter joy (save for the resurfacing argument about who had last seen the Cure CD that I wanted to listen on the drive, and the bit where the Ewing clipped someone’s wing mirror in one of the aforementioned  villages).

To get us in the mood we started off with half pints (quite the bargain at pound each) of their standard Xmas brew, the 25, a decent enough red AltBier. We also tried the 8, a rich dark beer brewed four different malts. The good weather meant we could sup these out in the sunshine, although it also meant the Ewing spied their sign offering free broken pallets alongside a help yourself hop compost heap – although I suppose further repeat visits will have to involve the purchase of beer, too.

As well as brewing beers under the XT moniker, they also offer a range of Animal beers, which allow them to experiment with a few more quirky flavour combinations. This time they had the Christmas-themed Gobble on cask (this version especially cellared in oak barrels), a rich dark stout brewed with roasted cacao nibs and a hint of orange, a beer the Ewing (and I) was so fond of we also picked up a two litre bottle straight from the keg for drinking later.

Next up was a visit to the Eight Bells - a pretty pub dating from 1607 in the nearby village of Long Crendon and perennial star in Midsommer Murders  - where I was very much looking forward to a long and lazy lunch and a prime spot in front of the log fire; circumstances which, alongside the Saturday papers made a very warm (literally) welcome. They also had the XT’s 25 on cask, so I settled for another pint of that.

Starters we decent enough; the crab pate was great, but the bread to crustacean ratio was a little off (too many carbs not enough crab) while the advertised and anticipated smoked garlic aioli was either absent or (possibly?) the dressing on the side salad.

The duck rillettes, served with granary bread, befell the opposite problem of too little bread – clearly not really a problem, who minds scooping up tender shreds of confit meat straight from plate to mouth? While the duck was nice enough the clementine marmalade, freshly made in the kitchen, was outstanding; a perfect bittersweet counterpoint to the fatty meat.

Sadly the mains fell as flat as the pizzas. Normally pub pizza is best avoided, but a whole section dedicated to their thin crust Italian bases and seasonal toppings including blue cheese and mushrooms and the ‘Porky Pig’, including chorizo, black pudding and pulled pork, were too tempting to turn down.

While the toppings -especially the glorious black pudding and mushrooms - were good, the base was far too thick and pallid and the intriguing ‘pork veloute’, replacing the familiar metallic tang of tomato, just bland. Add the fact that the extra pineapple salsa (the Ewing made me do it) looked suspiciously just like something tipped out of a can by the man from Del Monte and it was rather underwhelming.

That said, the remaining pizza that they boxed up for us to take home made a great post drinking snack after being  given a further crisp up in the oven the following evening, so it wasn’t without salvation. Prices, at around eight quid a pop, are also fair for a something that is often given astronomical mark ups.

Restraining ourselves from getting too pizza-logged also meant we had room for pud, which for me was the standout part of the menu. Despite not having a hugely sweet tooth, and often not being very excited by deserts when eating out, there was nothing here I wouldn’t have happily buried my face in – literally or figuratively.

In a very strange turn of events, confirmed chocoholic the Ewing turned down the chocolate bundt cake with Mexican hot chocolate sauce and coffee ice cream; which meant, with that description, I was almost duty bound to order it. It was pretty much perfect; gooey cake, subtly spiced sauce set off by the creamy and caffeinated accompaniment. The only thing I rued being that by choosing it, I missed the opportunity to order the spotted dick and fresh custard or the apple and custard millefuille.

The Ewing, thankfully, wasn’t disappointed with her choice. A butternut squash bavavois served with red wine poached pears and homemade amaretti biscuits. The bavavois was particularly noteworthy; smooth, sweet and slightly claggy - like the best sort of cheesecake, but this time served with the biscuits on top.

I liked the Eight Bells; while the cooking could do with a little work, the menu’s interesting without being too outré -  there’s still plenty of room for lunchtime baguettes and staples such as fish and chips and steak pie – the greeting is friendly and there’s plenty of local ales and cider to slake a thirst.

While it might not all have been perfect, to get through a few drinks at lunch followed by Saturday afternoon visits to both Waitrose and Lidl (to stock up on the all important reserves of marzipan and stollen) on the way home and avoid a murder, Misdsommer related or otherwise, seemed like a pretty good result. Pass me the bottle opener.

Pints and Pancakes, Chesham Style

Recently, at the fifth time braving the concentric circles of hell, aka IKEA - I did get to eat lots of meatballs, though – we bought a new bed. This turned out to be rather more fortuitous than I imagined, as two weeks later I was consigned to it with a rather nasty bout of ‘flu.

Whist I had all the extra cushions I had ever craved, a fluffy duvet and a memory foam mattress that pushed sleeping right back up to the top of my list of recreational activities, I was also undeniably ill. This was proved when I didn’t even venture downstairs into the kitchen for a whole weekend and even turned down dinner. Twice. 

It wasn’t all bad news, however. After a week of consignment I had dropped a notch on my belt, and although we had to cancel plans to visit the London Brewers market at Spitalfields, a trip to the supermarket to restock the cupboards took us perilously close to the Brewery Shop in Chesham…

Before my fortifying and well deserved drink, we popped in to the main reason for this blog post, Poppins. Poppins is a Southern-based chain of restaurant/cafes whose Canterbury branch retains somewhat legendary status in my mind as a regular place of salvation, providing fry ups and strong tea after nights on the tiles whist at uni.

Inside is formica heaven. In fact everything is shiny, from the laminated menus to the fried eggs. It’s the comforting kind of place that you don’t really see any more – the sort of place where you can have a deep fried burger with your all day breakfast (chips are pretty much compulsory) or mash-topped shepherd’s pie with a baked potato on the side, or toasted teacakes and beans on toast, and everything, well most things, come with lashings of squirty cream. My kinda place.

My first choice, lamb chops with all the trimmings, was off so I switched to the pork instead. It’s not actually an exaggeration to say that Poppins’ lamb chops are some of the best I have eaten, although I wasn’t holding out the same hopes for the porcine variety. Thankfully, whist being a little dry, they passed my stringent, Homer Simpson-esque, test. 

If there's any sight more comforting than grilled tomato, fried mushrooms, chops chips and peas, especially when one has crawled off their death bed to eat it, I haven’t yet made its acquaintance, and this was my perfect plate of comfort food. Oh, yeah, and it's all yours for £6.45.

The Ewing, unsurprisingly, was in her culinary heaven, choosing the three egg omelette with cheese and mushroom as a paean to the homely cooking of her Mum, whose childhood offering of ‘yellow fish with mash and peas’ remains her favourite dish, regardless of how many Michelin stars are on the menu.

With a pudding list like the one above, how could you resist (although I'm not sure if the Ewing's look is joy or trepidation)? Of course, we couldn’t and soon we were staring down a silver platter of pancakes heaped with hot cherries and a can of cream. If you want to look at the reasons behind the hole in the Ozone layer, Poppins is probably a good place to start.

CFCs aside, this is England set in aspic, the kind of place everyone remembers visiting with their grandparents - and still does, judging by the clientele. Come for lunch, stay for heart disease and diabetes, although they do have an on trend smoothie menu and even a selection of salads (prominently featuring cheese, mayo and coleslaw, obviously). The staff are also lovely, although the music – Muse interspersed with Nat King Cole – was possibly an acquired taste.

Next up it was time for a fortifying beer at The Chesham Brewery Shop, the Brewery tap for the Red Squirrel Brewery in Berkhampstead. As well as there own brews they also offer a selection of other ales, beer, cider and wine to drink in or take out.

While you can’t move around Bermondsey, Beavertown or Brixton for fear of disturbing another nest of beer drinking bead wearers huddled in a railway arch somewhere, this is a little piece of beer geek heaven transported to the end of the Metropolitan line.

They have a decent, regularly changing, selection on keg, including the lovely Gadds number 3 on our visit, of which I sampled the sweet and creamy Red Squirrel Milk Stout, an appropriate choice as the extra lactose in the brew meant it was often given to convalescents. 

We also grabbed a few bottles of the Red Squirrel Best Bitter for Christmas alongside a trio from Great Heck - the Amish Mash, a heavily hopped weisse hybrid, being particularly good – and a couple of oyster stouts from Redemption and Arbor.

No trip to Chesham would be complete without a visit to Darvells and Sons the bakers which, like Poppins, remains a place preserved time. Here you can buy old fashioned delights such as the barrel loaf - round toast anyone – wonky-eyed chocolate chip footballers, lardy cake, bath buns and cream horns. There’s even a nod to the contemporary with whoopee pies, and Syrian onion loaf, macaron and chia bread.

Our haul contained Viennese whirl topped mince pies, the gold standard of mince pies, a seasonal stilton and pear cobb and, my favourite, the ‘Battenberg Bookend’; a slice of strawberry jam filled cake covered in marzipan and then dipped in chocolate. As the lady behind the counter said, ’we can’t have that sponge drying out…’ 

Needless to say, after a week of snuffling, coughing and ineffective pill-popping, the best way to aid my recovery was with a slice of this chocolate covered delight and a cuppa - that good old English panacea - when we got home.

The Living Daylights

In a slight diversion from the usual food and drink based-shenanigans. I'm taking a time out to take Pies and Fries on location. Most avid readers of the blog (hi again, Mum and Mrs P) will no doubt be aware of my unabashed Bond love. It’s true I’m a massive 007 fan and my favourite film of the franchise – possibly... probably... if I really, really had to choose – is 1987's the Living Daylights.

Yes, that’s right not the classic Connery,  jocular Moore or ice cold Craig, but the wonderful, and very overlooked, Timothy Dalton making his debut in a first of a deuce of appearances as the world’s most famous spy. A fabulous film that, for various reasons, failed to jump start a flagging franchise and lead to the slightly less lovable Licence to Kill.

Now normally I’m not really a fan boy about such things, but rather excitingly – and, you can imagine, this really thrilled the Ewing -we recently had the chance to visit some of the locations in TLD; firstly in Vienna and then closer to home in London and the Chilterns.

 

Our first port of call was the Volksoper in Vienna which provided the façade of the 'Ľudové Konzervatorium' (people’s conservatory) in Bratislavia (still a Communist country, an not open to filming, when the TLD was shot), the backdrop to some of the most iconic scenes from the film.

While the building itself looks pretty much the same - save for the large red lettering on the left hand side of the building - the most striking thing is how much the scrawny little sapling that you see planted at the front of the building in the film has grown in the last 26 years!

I took my pictures of the Volksoper’s exterior from outside the sweet shop on the opposite side of the street. It’s the same shop that Bond and Saunders access in the film in order to try and get a clean shot at Kara Milovoy, Koskov’s supposed assassin, who appears in the top window above the balcony of the Volksoper during the interval. It was closing when we arrive, but pictures of Timothy Dalton can apparently still be seen stuck up inside.

 

While the interior shots of the Ľudové Konzervatorium were provided by the Sofiensäle (sadly burnt to a shell in 2001) in the film, we were lucky enough to have a night in the gods at the Volksoper. Our evening's entertainment was provided by Strauss' Die Fledermaus, a farcical operatta first premiered in Vienna 137 years before, and still able to raise a laugh, especially after a few cans of Ottakringer drunk en route.

Some of the best scenes from any Bond film are to be found in TLD, where Koskov is sprung from Blayden, the MI6 safe house deep in the English countryside. In real life the exterior shots of Blayden and its surrounds are provided by Stonor Park, just outside Henley, with the interior being filmed back in the studio.

Built in c.1180, Stonor House has been the home of the Stonor family for more than eight centuries and is still privately owned, and lived in, by the family. Both the house and gardens, with a small shop and tea room, can be visited between 1-5 on Sunday and Bank Holiday Mondays, so we jumped in the jalopy one sunny Sunday afternoon for a gander.

 

In Stor's scenes, Necros, undoubtedly one of the franchise’s most fearless henchmen, hijacks the local milkman’s float – one of the only things that really dates this classic film – before driving to the safe house and attacking the staff with various weapons including electric carving knives, handfuls of salt, a set of saucepans and the lead his Walkman headphones (another great 80’s touch).

This leads to the double agent Koskov being re-captured by the rebels, who arrive on the front lawn in an ambulance helicopter, assisted by Necros who is now disguised as a doctor. Only the grounds front of the house and chapel are visible in these scenes, which means that sadly you don’t get to see the beautiful English garden, with stunning views across the Chiltern Hills and to the deer park and woodland behind.

While they don't make the film, the Italianate style gardens are charming, shouldn’t be missed. As well as the neat as a pin lawn just to the back of the house there is a maze of meadow and orchard gardens that mix neatly topiaried rows of trees with wild grass. The long mixed border at the top of the terrace, complete with giant artichokes and glorious climbing roses, ends with a Japanese garden house, built after the 5th Lord Camoys visit to Kyoto at the turn of the last century.

Prior to the excitement of Koskov’s escape, we see Bond drive up to the gates of Blayden, before going inside to deliver a hamper of champagne and caviar from Harrods -

Koskov: “What’s this? From Harrods a godsend, the food here is horrible. What’s this, Caviar, well that’s peasant food for us, but with champagne it’s ok. And more – Bollinger RD – the best!” 

Bond also explains to M that he took the liberty of changing it as the champagne as the brand on the list was “questionable”.

As mentioned above, these interior shots were not set in Stonor, but we did get to see some of the interior for ourselves when we stopped by the tea room that is housed in the fabulous Old Great Hall. A fabulous room complete with its old deer skulls on the walls, trophies from the deer park behind the house, and new glass atrium. 

The cream tea comes highly recommended,; generous pots of tea and giant, freshly baked scones, although the portions of cream and jam were a little lacking. There’s also a range of homemade cakes and sandwiches available to eat in or out.

Slightly confusingly, after the scenes set in Bratislava that were filmed in Vienna, we then move on to the scenes set in Vienna that were also filmed in the city. 

After a great snowy chase that sees Bond and Kara crossing the Austrian/Slovakian border on a cello case they arrive, even more ingloriously, in Vienna on the back of a vegetable truck. On their disembarking you can see the Reisenrad in the background, as well as, very briefly, the Shell petrol station, which stills stands, unchanged, by the entrance. 

The Reisenrad, situated in the Prater Park, is one of Vienna’s most iconic landmarks, and Bond and Kara return to the Prater later that evening for a bit of schmoozing for Bond to rendezvous with Saunders. But not before they take a fiaker, traditional Viennese horse drawn carriage, to the Schonnbrunn Palace.

 

Bond is surprisingly gallant in these scenes, gazing lovingly at Kara in the carriage and then even insisting on separate rooms when they arrive at the hotel Palais Schwarzenberg. The film was made middle of the AIDS epidemic, and Bond’s usual philandering was kept in check, although he does smoke in the film, something which is now probably frowned upon more than promiscuity.

I wish I could describe our trip to the Schonbrunn quite as romantically as Bond’s, but it was hot, I was hungry and we had to climb the hill to the top of the Gloritte before we could eat our picnic. That said, once our pretzel rolls, schinken and Kase were dispatched, we could finally relax on the lawn and enjoy the glorious views over the city and things didn’t seem so bad after all.

The interior was similarly stunning and a mercifully brief audio guide means you can get a good over view of some of the 1,441 rooms without losing the will to live while looking at another four poster bed or antique dinner service. There’s also very good strudel available from the adjacent Café Residenz.

Balloon, Mein Herr?

On Bond and Kara returning to the Prater that evening, we see some of the most exciting and touching scenes in the film. After the obligatory ride on the waltzers and triumph on the shooting range the loved up pair take a spin on the big wheel. 

From his vantage point Bond spots a balloon seller, aka Necros, offering Saunders his wares.  His line, Balloon, Mein Herr?, is a direct reference to the Third Man, the most famous of all films shot in Vienna, and is well worth a watch if you haven’t seen it already.

After a bit of seduction high in the sky, Bond leaves Kara briefly to meet Saunders at the Prater café -I’m not sure if it’s still here or not, as we didn’t get a chance to explore much beyond the wheel, but from his expression James doesn’t rate the coffee too highly anyway.  Here we see Saunders hand over the info to Bond before being trapped between the remote controlled sliding doors as he exits (the rigged hydraulic piston can just be glimpsed in the far right of the shot).

Of course, if Necros was really clever, he would have dispatched Saunders before the rendezvous with Bond, but anyway I digress… What is really touching about this scene is seeing Dalton convey Bond’s softer side. Although Saunders is a stuffy bureaucrat at odds with Bonds lazzies fare attitude, during the film they develop an understanding and James is genuinely stricken by the fact he was unable to protect him.

Our ride was far less eventful, but still no less enjoyable, and the views from the wheel on a clear day are not to be missed. The rest of the park itself is a pleasantly old fashioned sort of place with the usual selection of fairground rides and games, although, as there’s no entrance fee to the park, it’s easy just to take the Metro to the Prater just for a spin on the wheel, as we did.

The park scenes mark the end of the European locations, until the final act when Bond returns to watch Kara in concert. In between, of the more far flung locale they visit, Tangier is high on the list for a potential next adventure, although remote Afghanistan, where bond joins the Mujahideen to try and bust Whittaker’s opium ring, is probably not going to be on the itinerary anytime soon. 

Their internment in Central Asia does, however, lead to one of the film’s funniest lines: Kara: "You were fantastic – we're free!" Bond: "Kara, we're inside a Russian air base in the middle of Afghanistan."

The film ends with the credits rolling over a night time view of the Schonbrunn Palace, accompanied by another criminally overlooked nugget, the Pretenders ‘If There Was a Man’; the first time a Bond film has featured a different track for both opening and closing credits.

A fitting end to a fabulous film; and, in case this post seems light on the consumables, Bond does make the time for a drink or two: 

Linda: [into phone] It's all so boring here, Margo - there's nothing but playboys and tennis pros. [sighs] If only I could find a real man. 

[James Bond, having just dispatched an assassin in a burning truck in mid-air, lands on the boat with a smouldering parachute] 

Bond: I need to use your phone [takes phone] She'll call you back [hangs up].

Linda: You are who? 

Bond: Bond, James Bond [into phone] Exercise Control, 007 here. I'll report in an hour. 

Linda: [offering drink] won’t you join me? 

Bond: [into phone] better make that two.