Dry Doddington, Newark, Lincolnshire, NG23 5HU. tel 01400 281458 www.wheatsheaf-pub.co.uk
We were navigating the idyllic villages near the market town of Newark, sans SatNav. Our direction was little more than spur of the moment. The journey was defined by a sleepy wave of a hand, a shrug at a crossroads, a "you choose" lack of planning and, at best, a finger pointing at whatever village had the quaintest name on a roadsign, like 'Hough on the Hill' or 'Dry Doddington'. These little expeditions into rural terra incognita are always punctuated by The Flower's pronouncements of "I'd buy that", "that would be my house", "don't like the way they've done the windows" or a wrinkled nose and "manure! Urgh!" As if we don't already live in a listed cottage in a fine old village across from a stable.
Stumbling upon the Marple-esque beauty of Dry Doddington can be the upshot of these outings. A place put there to inspire property-envy in those passing through. Reminded GastroChap of the villages in kid's TV programmes from the late '70s and early '80s like 'Children of the Stones' or Pertwee-Baker era Dr Who. Gorgeous but distinctly quirky. Take for example its little village green complete with church, its spire like a crooked finger, and picturesque and traditional pub. Like a film set waiting for actors, the film crew cunningly hidden from shot. Streets quiet. Very few people can be seen. Peaceful. Who knows (in a Midsommer moment) what might be happening behind shutters and net curtains. Ever read Bradbury's perfect novel 'The Martian Chronicles' (first published as 'The Silver Locusts') and filmed for TV in '80s with Rock Hudson? There is a haunting section which sees astronauts landing on Mars only to find themselves in smalltown America: white picket fences, flags flying... (Michael Bay clearly finds this stereotype resonant). The archetypal vision, here peopled dreamily by dead friends and relatives. Once the initial shock and fear is overcome the visitors start to question the situation logically. Can they believe what they have found? Is this an illusion or is this heaven? Did they somehow die during the journey to Mars? Various theories are entertained but the astronauts are lulled into a false sense of security. Their suspicions are overcome. Doubts bled away. They are seduced by nostalgia. They do not act on concerns that this might be a Martian trap. One by one the astronauts are slaughtered, peacefully, in their sleep by aliens who come to them disguised as loved ones.
Why did this come to mind? Bit spooky for a spot of lunch in the late August sunshine. I think because if I had to conjure up an image of the quintessential English village it would be Dry Doddington. Timeless, in the sense that you cannot see much in the way of modern trappings: even SKY dishes are inobtrusive and generally hidden, most vehicles seemed to be old jeeps, most of the pub's clientelle dressed in country casual garb or farm / estate working wear. Clearly if I were signed up for a trip to Bradbury's Mars I won't be so easily fooled.
The Wheatsheaf is a fine looking venue, parts dating back 600 years. White painted exteriors, with a gravelled drinking area at the front presenting you views of the green and the nearby church. The kind of pub so beloved of Hollywood's idea of everyday British drinking (and for some a blessed reality of course). Inside there is a well-appointed bar area with plenty of real ales (delicious Timothy Taylor Landlord served in the correct glass) and good wine choices. Snug little drinking areas with wood burning stoves, decked out smartly in country chic with throws, rugs and cushions. A more formal dining area at the back - but perfectly comfortable. Wooden beams (but of course), and all trim and tidy. The sort of place you can enjoy on a gorgeously sunny day eating rather tasty bacon and brie sandwiches out the front (with homemade chips - double baked, crisp and then spot-on fluffy), with a flight of wasps stuka-dive bombing your golden ale. And then picture at Christmas, decked out traditionally, swaddled in snow, with fires roaring and hearty food steaming on the tables.
I can't imagine us not returning before then.
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