A weekend in oldest England, and a visit to a nine hundred year old freehouse, with the oldest of friends, not 900 years old… but since we were three years old.
It rained and rained and yet somehow that made The Royal Standard of England seem more romantic – shaky tiles and red bricks covered in ivy and dark beams and an open fire. I layered up in leather legs, the cosiest cable knit, those boots that go with everything and a new plaid coat, inside out because maybe it’s kinda reversible, or maybe not but I like it both ways and the grey side out with the plaid inside is kinda cool and nobody said, ‘hey your coat’s inside out’.
So we drank mulled wine in front of the crackling fire and ate deep fried whitebait from tankards and roasted pheasant with recurrant jus and caught up on old times while we filled our bellies. Perfect weekend.