Phwoar

The Riverside Inn is doubly blessed. There’s river to the front of it, river to the side of it and a stone bridge somewhere in between. Good for fishing they say – trout and grayling, since you ask. And the river? It’s the Lugg, the river to be beside in these parts. Diving hopefully into this ancient inn, we spot our host behind the bar. When he discovers that we’re the ones who’re staying he’s round our side of it fast. “I was beginning to get worried about you,” he says, looking worried. How nice of him, though we think we’ve arrived at just the right time. Time to get acquainted with our room. Time for a drink before dinner. Time to have a leisurely look through the menu. According to one of the several readers who suggested we should stay here, the inn dates from about 1580. It has all the venerable trimmings: low ceilings, a plethora of oak beams, thick walls, plus a cluster of cosy-looking wooden tables and a fire leaping up the chimney breast twixt bar and lounge area. Most of the punters, as far as we can tell, are locals. Our room is up two flights of sturdy oak stairs. At first glance, I think how cosy, how pretty, how it’s just the sort of room we hope to find in a small inn in the middle of not quite nowhere but not far from – though we’re soon abandoning it in favour of the bar where one of the waitresses is promptly bustling up to us, asking what we’d like to drink. “we’ll make a start on a bottle of wine…” This arrives in a terracotta holder decorated with grapes, a nice touch. We soon discover that this country inn has other nice touches, such as real ales, brewed locally, and a cellar of “interesting wines”. Plus a named head chef – not many pubs have named chefs. Food’s the name of the game here, we now realise. So it’s not pie and mash for dinner after all. No, no. It’s much more elegant than that, but then we have opted to eat in the restaurant with it’s pink starched cloths and demure air. Is this really a roadside pub with only trees and a river for company? I’m having game terrine (complete with lead shot, as I’m about to discover – good thing I’ve got strong teeth) then baked halibut fillet with a spinach and prawn sauce; my husband the caramelised onion tartlette with Herefordshire duck and wild mushroom sauce to follow. Here’s the waitress. “Would you like your duck pink?” she asks my husband. On the pine table are crimson table mats and a night light. On the walls, cosy red-shaded lights. Hops decorate the ceiling. How nice to be in such a well-run pub where attention is paid to details such as the veg: the sprouts, red cabbage, and carrots are perfectly done, ie. Crisp not soggy. The only thing that defeats us are the rich sauces; even my husband is forced to leave some of his. So you might well ask, how do we manage puds? Hey, it’s expected of us, I mutter, ordering a vodka and lime sorbet, while my crazy husband goes for the chocolate and almond tart – how could he? – looking mighty smug afterwards. We finish with real expresso coffee. Phwoar! Upstairs, it’s the bedside lamps that get us going. On switching them on, we realise they’re standing on pieces of furniture – one a table, one a box – lower than the bed. The reading-in-bed scenario seems grim until my husband has the bright idea of removing the shade from his lamp and holding it above his book. “I can see clearly now.” I soon cotton on but am not as good at lamp-dismantling as he is. “That’s because I’m a man,” he says, intending to annoy me……and he does. In the morning, dead-keen Richard who, with his wife, Liz, has been here for a year or so, gets chatting to us about his plans for the pub – sorry, I’ve run out of space – but he certainly has the right idea: keep the customers happy and you’re halfway there.

Phwoar! What a pub...and the grub's not bad, either.