The Boat Inn - Richard Johnson

Will Mrs Sonia Wall please pay her paper bill so that the newsagent in Redbrook can resume his deliveries? The note in the newsagent's window couldn't make it any clearer - Mrs Sonia Wall is ruining it for everyone. You see, I owe the good people of that village. They took me to The Boat, a glorious pub that lies hidden across a magnificent rust-red bridge that straddles the fat brown waters of the Wye. And for that I can never repay them. So cough up Mrs Wall.

The Boat isn't pretty in a manicured, Cotswolds kind of way. It's only concession to contemporary pub design is the coloured lightbulbs in the garden. The outbuildings have corrugated rooves, there's an old microwave under one of the garden tables, and the hanging baskets are made of plastic. But The Boat isn't there for people who are bothered about such things. Besides they wouldn't get a signal on their mobiles. It's a pub for locals. And there's local honey on sale at the bar.

The locals drink Thatchers cider out of a barrel. And what a cider. I'm getting apples. I'm getting Laurie Lee. I'm getting over emotional. Unlike the commercial fizz we get in London (ideal for the ladies, perhaps - or Taunton holidaymakers) Thatchers tastes how cider used to to taste. Without the addition of a dead rat or ham bone to mellow the flavour. Or a handful of lead shot to make it sweeter. One theorist blames the use of lead shot in cider for the 'village idiot syndrome'. But that's stretching it.

The word 'cider' comes from the ancient Hebrew word schecar, a generic term for a strong drink. The landlord at The Boat will understand if you order schecar. Just point at your empty glass. No-one knows who first discovered that overripe apples had a pleasant effect on the disposition. But in 55 BC, Julius Caesar discovered cider in Kent. Which goes some way to explaining the great contributions the Romans made to apple cultivation.

The Boat isn't just for locals. It's for hill-walkers. It's for cyclists in matching tunics. I happen to be wearing a yellow jersey, which I think is funnier than they do. And it's for dogs. The beamed lounge bar is like Lady And The Tramp. So we decide against ordering the spaghetti, and head out to the tiered garden, cut into the side of the mountain. Streams run round the wooden slabs that pass for seats, and lichen grows in the ashtrays. The place could return to nature in a long weekend. I came away from The Boat smelling fresher. And it's not often you can say that after a pub lunch.

The Boat Inn
Lone Lane
Penalt
Monmouth
01600 712615



		The Boat Inn Will Mrs Sonia Wall please pay her paper bill so that the newsagent in Redbrook can resume his deliveries? The note in the newsagent's window couldn't make it any clearer - Mrs Sonia Wall is ruining it for everyone. You see, I owe the good people of that village. They took me to The Boat, a glorious pub that lies hidden across a magnificent rust-red bridge that straddles the fat brown waters of the Wye. And for that I can never repay them. So cough up Mrs Wall. The Boat isn't pretty in a manicured, Cotswolds kind of way. It's only concession to contemporary pub design is the coloured lightbulbs in the garden. The outbuildings have corrugated rooves, there's an old microwave under one of the garden tables, and the hanging baskets are made of plastic. But The Boat isn't there for people who are bothered about such things. Besides they wouldn't get a signal on their mobiles. It's a pub for locals. And there's local honey on sale at the bar. The locals drink Thatchers cider out of a barrel. And what a cider. I'm getting apples. I'm getting Laurie Lee. I'm getting over emotional. Unlike the commercial fizz we get in London (ideal for the ladies, perhaps - or Taunton holidaymakers) Thatchers tastes how cider used to to taste. Without the addition of a dead rat or ham bone to mellow the flavour. Or a handful of lead shot to make it sweeter. One theorist blames the use of lead shot in cider for the 'village idiot syndrome'. But that's stretching it. The word 'cider' comes from the ancient Hebrew word schecar, a generic term for a strong drink. The landlord at The Boat will understand if you order schecar. Just point at your empty glass. No-one knows who first discovered that overripe apples had a pleasant effect on the disposition. But in 55 BC, Julius Caesar discovered cider in Kent. Which goes some way to explaining the great contributions the Romans made to apple cultivation. The Boat isn't just for locals. It's for hill-walkers. It's for cyclists in matching tunics. I happen to be wearing a yellow jersey, which I think is funnier than they do. And it's for dogs. The beamed lounge bar is like Lady And The Tramp. So we decide against ordering the spaghetti, and head out to the tiered garden, cut into the side of the mountain. Streams run round the wooden slabs that pass for seats, and lichen grows in the ashtrays. The place could return to nature in a long weekend. I came away from The Boat smelling fresher. And it's not often you can say that after a pub lunch. The Boat Inn Lone Lane Penalt Monmouth 01600 712615

		© Richard Johnson 2000 - 2009