A Quick Decision

So there we were, trapped by an old lady and her monster dog that lay in wait somewhere in the building, watching for us to leave our room. Himself is not usually the most patient of men yet he seemed prepared to wait and who was I to argue.

I joined him at the window and we both stood looking down in to the garden, hoping to spot the dog so we could make a run for it. "Look at that," I said pointing to a very large pile of silage towering above the garden fence. "Bet that's not good for trade in the summer."

"There's a lot of things here that won't be good for trade" he replied and turned to walk to the door.

"She told us to wait," I pleaded. "I'm not leaving this room until she comes back." Hoping to keep him in the room I launched in to a series of pitiful comments about the room. "The en-suite is just a cupboard, someone's just put a frame around an old loo and sink.... Look at those sheets, I don't think they've been changed since the last occupant." Himself wasn't listening.

"This is ridiculous, I'm not wasting my time with this I've seen enough," he said.

A Frightening Experience

Having been refused a piggy-back to the front door I let Himself find the least wet pathway and tiptoed through the water in his footsteps. An elderly lady greeted us at the door with apologises for this Somerset deluge. Before the conversation got much further the sound of a deep dog bark echoed through the pub. As we introduced ourselves the barking grew more frantic.

Now I like dogs and I have 3 of my own, but this deep throated barking sounded - ominous. We could hear a crashing sound as somewhere in the building this creature tried to reach us. The lady was unperturbed and calmly introduced herself as the owner of the pub. Her small slim frame went some way to sooth my dog nerves as we started our tour of her establishment.

The ground floor of the pub was a wide open, light space. A pleasing blend of modern and traditional with flagstone floors, pine tables and metal chairs and an open fireplace at one end of the room. The slightly scruffy bar told a different story with its heavy scratches and unpolished look. Moving through the room the landlady suggested we now look upstairs. This seemed an unusual move as so far all we had seen was the main bar area.

I could see the stairs in a corner of the room and as she led is in their direction the barking stopped. A small passage to the right led to a full-sized glass door and as we approached the stairs dining tables were clearly visible through the door. And that was not all.

The second we drew level with the door a huge black beast leapt at the glass with a force that stopped Himself in mid step. The door held and the hand that had covered my mouth now grabbed his jacket. It was a rottweiler. We froze yet the little old lady continued walking up the stairs oblivious to our terror and mindlessly we followed.

The upstairs area had a feel of neglect. Grubby paint work, dull and dusty looking, the landing made the idea of sleeping here, uninviting. She opened a door and waved us in to a room she described as a double en-suite letting bedroom. I would have described it as an over sized box room. The 12 by 12 room was dilapidated with peeling wallpaper, dirty fingerprints on the walls and stained and yellowing paintwork that told of past smokers.

The landlady politely requested that we take our time and look around - and would we please remain in the room whilst she moved the dog!

English Weather

What is it about the English and their weather! Always the backstop of 'what shall I talk about' or the first thing you say to someone you've just met, it is the most popular topic of conversation in Britain.

And so it was one Saturday afternoon as Himself and I drove from Cornwall to Somerset to view the pub with the best potential so far. It was raining. Not your ordinary rain but a veritable torrent or as my granddad used to say 'the sky was flooding.' Himself favoured the expression 'one months rain in a day' but after a bit of discussion we agreed it was probably a monsoon.

Known originally as the land of the summer people because the area was too wet to live in during winter, Somerset is a beautiful county. It has something for everyone. Large historic country houses and castles, museums, small and quirky like the Bakelite museum, or large as in the Fleet Air Arm museum. It's moors, wetlands and marshes are home to a range of rare and varied birds an wildlife. Today basket weaving and hurdle making sits comfortably alongside Eco-friendly willow coffin makers and the ever present farmhouse scrumpy ciders.

The pub we were to view was in an area of Somerset called 'The Levels', an area of wetlands controlled from flooding with a series of sea defences. On arrival the location of the pub was good, and from the road the building itself looked very good. Unfortunately, the sea defences did not appear to be working well in this area, or may be it was the heavy clay soil found on the levels that caused todays problem. The pub was set in grounds lower than the road and surrounded by water as it was we would have no option but to leave the car and wade.

Munchkin Mansion? I Don't Think So ....

'This would be ideal for the Munchkins,' he said.

For those of you who have never met me I am only 5ft 3 inches short. I'm proud of my height being as I am, one of the tallest in my family. My father who has just reached his 89th year measures 5ft 1 inch and my mother, now approaching her 90th year has shrunk to 4ft 11 inches. Himself towers over us at a lofty 5ft 11 inches and it amuses him to refer to us as a family a munchkins.

Albeit that it has been agreed that my parents will move with us, I am sure that our munchkins would consider this garden cottage totally unsuitable. It has two square rooms 10ft by 10ft, a basic shower room that looks like germ heaven and like so many other things about this pub, a half-finished poky kitchen. I was beginning to have doubts about life in a pub if this was how I might be expected to live.

For someone with a natural curiosity, or an inbuilt nosiness, house hunting is a pleasure. Pub hunting on the other hand has the potential to be very depressing. Over the next month we covered a wide area in our search for our pub with potential. Boxes were ticked and crossed out. Expressions such as 'you're having a laugh' or 'not on your nelly' frequently left our lips and yes I admit it, we took to cursing pub selling agents and their flamboyant descriptions.

But then came the day that the details of a pub in Somerset plopped through the letterbox. Himself eagerly researched the area. It looked promising. He rang to chat to the agent. It sounded promising. 'I have a good feeling about this one,' he told me. 'We've an appointment to view on Saturday.'

Something Odd

The rest of our tour was just as puzzling with the upstairs living accommodation reflecting the emptiness of the public bars. No chairs, no settee and no beds, apart from a large mattress on the floor piled high with the debris of single living. But no TV? Moonlit flit sprang to mind.

Two of the reasons we'd chosen to view this pub was - 'an attached annex ideal for B&B or staff accommodation' and - 'a little garden cottage with pretty picket fence sited within the pub grounds, ideal for owner or manager,' or in my mind, elderly parents?

There's nothing like a little bit of hope! The attached annex was a bare shell and obviously a recent unfinished addition. The mottled pink and grey plaster told a tale of hurried work and I for one did not believe his 'it's only been used a couple of times for staff after a very late night disco.' Ah well, may be the garden cottage would be this pubs saving grace.

A sweeping lawn dotted with fruit trees, framed by flower borders full of promise. At the end of the garden was ... the cottage, but no sign of a pretty picket fence. The only comment, and I felt obliged at this point in our tour to say something, was 'it has great potential.' At this the landlord became very excited. 'There are so many uses for this building,' he said. 'In the summer when we are really busy our relief chef lives here. Everyone who has stayed here loves it.'

It was at this point that Himself butted in.

First Impressions

From the outside the pub looked anything but a traditional country pub. A post war building with numerous recent additions it looked in need of some TLC.

On paper this pub ticked several boxes, but location? Hell no. 'I wonder what time the builders start?' My question was ignored. Himself, seeming inclined to continue the inspection, was standing by the builders gateway viewing the pub roof. It wasn't long before before we were spotted and out rushed a very excited landlord.

'Come in, come in,' he said rubbing his hands in a Faganesque way. 'Would you like a coffee, cup of tea, or something stronger?' At this point a G&T would have gone down well but I resisted and asked instead for the ladies cloakroom.

My mother insists that you can tell a great deal about a pub, or restaurant, by its loos. If they smell fresh they are probably clean. If they look clean too then you can bet that you're not going to get food poisoning from the restaurant. This loo was basic, looked clean but smelt of stale wee. I was thankful to have turned down refreshments.

The inside of the pub had fared no better. Dark, grubby paintwork littered with out of date posters advertising everything I hate about pubs. Karaoke, live rock bands and disco nights. Our host enthused about the many wonderful evenings they'd had, people came from far and wide to support them. The bar did not back up his words and looked remarkably under stocked. Whilst Himself got down to the technical stuff I wandered through a swing door and found myself in a large, bright, very red room. A wall of windows overlooked the garden in what I assumed must be the function room - but a function room devoid of furniture. This pub was beginning to feel 'closed.'

A pub with potential!

Our first viewing is of a pub which, according to the agent's details, is 'just of an A road in a popular tourist area'. Half an hour after arriving at X marks the spot on our map we are still travelling backwards and forwards on said A road and Himself is not looking happy. My suggestion that this pub may be one of Hereford's best kept secrets does not go down well, but he agrees that the narrow lane we have just passed for the 3rd time might be worth investigating.

100 yards down the lane we pass a hand written sign rammed in to a hedge. 'What did it say?' he asks as we sail past . 'Flooding' I reply. And flooding there was. Just where the lane dipped down and became too narrow to turn sat a large pond of water. On the opposite side of this pond the lane rose and though the hill was small it was just steep enough to block our view over the top.

Why is it when faced with adversity it's always the woman's fault? Having vigorously defended my map-reading skills I volunteered to walk through the water to test its depth. My offer was turned down, somewhat ungraciously in my opinion, as Himself decided driving slowly through the water was all that was required. In silence we rolled forward and keeping a steady but firm speed (his words not mine) we parted the waters to the other side. I remember when I first learnt to drive, my father telling me that if you drive through a river you must stop and test your brakes. I never understood why he told me this living as we did miles from the countryside, but nonetheless, I've been waiting 30 years for just such an event. Unfortunately, not only am I not driving but this is definitely not the moment to be offering advise.

I don't consider myself particularly superstitious but I will admit I had my fingers crossed and as we drove over the brow of the hill there it is. Our pub with potential, sitting in its secluded setting off the beaten track - and opposite a large untidy builders yard.