The first time I had a pizza primavera it struck me that only the Italians would name a season after a pizza. Well, it turns out us Brits are just as bad. The village of Cheddar lies beneath the famous cliffs of Cheddar Gorge, where presumably they mine the renowned cheese that the Somerset village is named after. The gorge cuts through the limestone Mendip Hills in the south west of England, and over our five day stay we did exactly the two things you’re supposed to do: hiking the hills and drinking cider.
The Cider Barn really doesn’t need a marketing department. It’s a barn; they serve cider. What more do you need to know? I’d be exaggerating if I said the first night we popped in the piano player stopped mid-stride and and all the guys reached for their Colt 45s. But only slightly. The barkeep, Bear-Strangler Rockhard (or Nigel to his face), told us rather than asked us what to drink. But by day two we were considered regulars, and offered some of the special under-the-counter scrumpy that’s fermented with a dead sheep in the barrel and gives you only a 50% chance of any sight loss becoming permanent.
This was odd. We came across this dumped old bus in a ditch and covered in bushes. It wasn’t near any roads so I’ve no idea how it got there. I don’t know much about vintage vehicles, but this looks to me to date from the ’50s or ’60s. I’d recently watched A Simple Plan, so it did occur to me there might be a dead driver and four million dollars inside. Fortunately not, and I haven’t since been caught in a wicked web of lies, deceit and murder. Not really what you want when you’re trying to have a relaxing holiday.
I think you’re doing pretty well if you can wear a working cocker spaniel out. Although to be fair, for every mile we walked Coco ran at least three.