The Pheasant Inn

*Clears throat* Now, gather round folks, and let me tell you a tale of a Londoner’s hubris, a yarn of pride, woe and assuming that Uber is available everywhere… It begins in Hungerford, an olde Berkshire market town that has delightfully wonky brick and timbered houses, friendly inns, antique shops we are slightly afraid to swing our backpacks or express our left-wing views in, canal boats drifting along the Kennet and Avon passes, and even a town-hall noticeboard, plus a delightful wine shop with a ‘malt-whisky piano’ – which we find out is a piano with a lot of whisky bottles on and in it, not that we’re complaining. Our goal is to get from here to the Pheasant Inn, a quaint Young’s Pub and boutique stay between the Valley of the Racehorse and the Shefford Woodlands.

As we jab about in our taxi app, we realise that we may have been overly optimistic – but a quick phone call later, a van arrives to whisk us away, because at this point we are still enamoured of Berkshire’s transport services, to the point that when I leave my beloved cuddly H&M cardigan in the back seat, the driver offers to drop it off later at the inn – could a means of getting from A to B be dreamier? Well, more on that later… For now, our affections are diverted to the Pheasant Inn, which has stood in this picturesque rural spot for around 500 years, give or take 50, and even though it’s about 15 minutes’ drive from Hungerford, it feels deeper in the countryside, even if the bustling roads running past it are more recent.

It’s all you want in a British weekend escape: flagstone flooring, a fireplace with a stoker and book-lined shelves above, a relaxed pub garden or two, a casual ‘come in and get to know us better’ feel with super-friendly staff, plus a rather dapper taxidermied fox greeting you in the bar. We’re shown to our Superior Double Bedroom, a comfy hideaway with a bouncy king-size bed, pleasant patterned decor and a door leading out to the grassy grounds (with a slight view of the carpark, although this isn’t true of all rooms, especially the ones looking out over the garden round the back). It’s the little things that count, such as a minibar basket of treats including roast-beef crisps and snacking chorizo, both of which ‘mysteriously’ disappear as I catch up on emails; and the soundtrack of birdsong; the reliably warm shower; sink-into pillows… All reassuring, relaxing and undeniably luvverly. 

But, after having had just coffees on the train on the way down, we’re as famished as the first two syllables of Hungerford, so it’s out to the garden for plump, meaty Scotch eggs (although let it be known that there are also steak baguettes and chicken and tarragon sandwiches); glasses from the applaudable wine list (with some very good English choices) and maybe a fizz or two from the menu dedicated to them (mine passionfruit and porn-starry, Mr Smith’s something sharper and more herbal). And then, reader, I’d like to tell you that we attended some kind of country-house do with minor aristos, blew our wads at Ascot, tried to fit our adult bodies into Legoland’s made-for-children electric race cars – but, we did, well, nothing. I went back to my laptop to tap away about a new hotel for work and watch Donnie Brasco; Mr Smith sat at a picnic table watching YouTube gaming videos on his phone. But, exactly what high-octane hijinx were you expecting from a couple of thirtysomethings on a minibreak in the middle of Berkshire? In all honesty, it was ideal.

Things liven up when it comes to dinner, when we tuck into a feast of ox-cheek doughnut with apricot (scrumptious), scallops with pea purée and apple, Devonshire crab on sourdough, lamb various ways (hello, pulled-lamb bonbon), and some truly delightful desserts: a posh Reese’s Pieces-style thing of peanut butter and chocolate cheesecake, and a dark-chocolate fondant zinged up with cherries. 

But then, the next day, there comes an hour as sober as we weren’t the evening before (after dipping back into those fizzes), when we plan to go back into Hungerford and then realise that a taxi must be booked roughly five weeks in advance if you wish to explore the area. In vain we ring round local firms, and even my shining knight of the H&M cardigan is on an errand to Bristol, thus unavailable. Bravely we attempt to walk the 30 minutes into town, but make it roughly 40 feet after a combination of no pavements, big lorries and severe hay fever batter us into retreat. We really do advise bringing a set of wheels.

Once more to the fizz menu we go, and this time, there are punters around us who reveal that Berkshire is a big-deal wedding destination, so we have the reality-TV-besting chatter of take-charge mother-of-the-brides and their beleaguered daughters debating the best way to one up each other’s entrance, which we can earwig in on. Having recently completed our own nuptials, it’s comforting to know that wedding madness is universal. 

Our day trip thwarted by our unpreparedness, there’s another dinner to look forward to, and by now we feel at home – we notice and admire the racecourse-themed cartoons framed on the walls, the cosy nooks one can hide away in, the tip-top pint pours and welcome pet-friendliness. And, there’s more excellent pub grub: scallops again (because they were so very good the night before), a fat burger with boozy onions, stone-bass fillet with a punch of wild-garlic aioli. We sleep well indeed, safe in the knowledge that we’ve booked our taxi – being the savvy ‘Berks’ we now are. 

The next day, we pack, eat a hearty, locally sourced breakfast, and then wait in the garden, yet again dipping into the many fizzes on offer. Having heard of my hay-fever pain the day before (or perhaps just my pathetic sniffling), a lovely member of staff comes and offers me a very well-received Clarityn – a much-appreciated parting shot (well, pill). And then it’s off back to Hungerford for lunch in an ancient pub and to once again inch our way through precarious antique-holding cabinetry, staying close enough to the station to ensure no travel issues, but also, sort of wishing that we’re once again forced by circumstance to stay in the warm embrace of the Pheasant Inn – with a fizz, of course.