The circuit from our B&B, Crabpot Cottage (very nice), in Flamborough to the Rose and Crown pub a few doors down took us about three hours. Via the clifffs. Our B&B proprietor was right, the table booking was necessary. The place was chockablock with locals. What fun, having dinner at a local pub in England. All those accents and all that pale, Ella Bache skin.
The family chatting on a table next to us were obviously regulars. When their meals came, most of them tucked in but the young couple with the baby left with their foil-covered plates. I felt as if I was an extra in a filmed-on-location British television series.
On our other side a woman dined with her husband and friend. Both appeared quite content to speak only when she swallowed a mouthful. I am now fully informed about how she and her husband have managed without that extra fridge – a nightmare when the ‘grandkids’ are over; how Reggie recovered from his ‘little problem’ (after hearing what they went through, even I was thankful for what vets can do these days ) ; and how her daughter is doing in her new job – loving it but, gosh, her feet hurt.
One of the men at a nearby table was clearly a cyclist. I would have known even if he wasn’t carrying a helmet and sporting adherent lycra, for he addressed his cutlery as he would handlebars – elbows up and wide, hands raised fists. It looked fascinatingly energy-consumptive.
Whatever happened to needing impeccable table manners in case you are called upon to dine with The Queen, as my mother used to advise? Maybe the English have the advantage over rural Australian children there, knowing it will probably never happen.
If it does, I’m ready. In the meantime I’ll keep my hand(s) in at the local.