To the Core

So the weekend in Oxford started at the Gardeners Arms, Plantation Rd. The place was heaving with neuroscientists creating less work for themselves, and while they tucked into Belgian beer, source of many innuendos because of its method of pouring, I contented myself with three bottles of Westons. I did attempt a framboise, but it didn't taste as good as I remember.

Saturday saw me at The Somerset. This pub, ironically, failed to provide me with any cider other than Strongbow, which is becoming a little like an over-familiar friend. Five pints later and I was willing to forget past grievances. The Somerset did however provide Hex Appeal and an opportunity to surprise all and sundry with my cool pool prowess. I'm reliably informed that a couple of pints at The Duke and bottles each at Qumins and Port Mahon followed, but I couldn't possibly comment.

The best pint of the weekend, if it hadn't been shrouded in the melancholy of departure, was provided by Far From the Madding Crowd, a pub that is, um, off the beaten track. Christened Swanvale Gold, this cider originates from the west country and is not dissimilar to Dry Blackthorn. It has a more oaken taste than DB, however, and is marginally less fizzy. FFTMC also sells Crouch Vale, Oakleaf and Vale real ales, for the boys among you.

Aside from cider, which was obviously the main topic under discussion for the duration of the weekend, we contemplated the following:
... whether four times in two months counts as frequent
... whether there's time enough for friends, work and love
... what the perfect pub contains

We also completed AT LEAST HALF of the Observer crossword, and tittered at pigeons engaging in coprophilia. I think that's the word. I'm giggling too much to check.