We had tried to escape from Christmas a few years ago, to the Caribbean. Yet in spite of the pina coladas and beach weather, we still managed to get a full turkey lunch on Christmas Day. And last year, once we left Cambodia for Thailand we were forced to endure a horrendous New Year’s Eve gala dinner at the only hotel we could find a room in Krabi. So hurrah for Cambodia, one place where you truly can escape from Christmas if you want to.
Returning to the bosom of the family this year, it turns out that we have a new Christmas tradition; going out on Christmas Eve for dinner at the Wellington Arms, a pub just fifteen minutes from my brother’s house in the wilds of Hampshire. More accurately, between Basingstoke and Reading. This was only my second visit to “The Welly”, but I recalled enjoying the first one greatly and was looking forward to it.
The Wellington is absolutely charming, inside and out. It certainly isn’t a pub. My rule is: if the only place for a drinker to be is propped up at the bar, then it’s a restaurant. Gastropub. Whatever. I was talking of charm. It’s a tiny place, furnished in such quintessentially country pub style that you feel you could walk out of the door into The Shire and tip your hat to Bilbo Baggins. Before we went I was alarmed to hear that they had been “doing an extension” – this so often means a soulless add-on that greedily doubles capacity at the expense of atmosphere. Needn’t have worried; the extension adds a whopping three tables and already looks like it has been there a hundred years.
Other reviewers have already remarked on the basket of hens eggs and the hand-knitted tea cosies offered for sale on the bar, so I won’t. But I do have to echo others in saying that a huge part of the Wellington’s charm is Simon, who looks after front-of-house and is clearly absolutely in love with his establishment. Along with his friendly young team he welcomes and cares for his guests very well indeed. Oh, and his mum knits the cosies.
My venison pot pie was splendid and comforting, the venison still fibrous but falling to pieces, the root vegetable and gravy a deep, satisfying mush. All topped with a big glossy cap of golden brown puffy pastry. It arrived at the table somewhere near the temperature of an active volcano – luckily the steam provided a warning. Maureen’s posh cottage pie also arrived at near volcanic heat, but although tasty there wasn’t much to justify the label “posh” except for some of the meat being finely chopped rather than minced. Sides of chips and sprouts were good, but the peas deserve a special mention: served plain and slightly crushed, they were sweeter and more flavourful than any other peas I can remember. One of those little “how did they manage that?” dishes.
Three courses without drinks works out around £25 a head – remarkable for food this good. I must admit to envying my brother. I can’t think of a more idyllic venue to welcome in the holidays in earnest, but I could also get used to popping into “The Welly” every other week for a convivial feast at any season.
Excuse the duff photos – the light was too cosy and I was too busy enjoying myself!
