Tuesday, December 01, 2009

One of life's little Pheasantries


A while ago my lovely wife booked us a romantic weekend in the Lake District, those of you with good memories will recall the awful tale, those of you with strong stomachs may revisit our Windermere hell here. You may be sure, my gentle readers that it was with no small amount of trepidation that we bravely entered the Lake District, en-route to a shooting weekend in Bonnie Scotland, our nervousness heightened by the fact that our hostelry of choice was a scant eight miles from Cockermouth recently featured on the national news as a scene of flood-wrought doom and destruction.

The Pheasant, much to our delight turned out to be an ancient inn, apparently a haunt of John Peel, (you do ken John Peel don't you?). The Inn boasts a large amount of beams, history,woodsmoke, oak and pine furniture, creaks, odd passages and hooty owls which deliver just the right amount of Olde English quaintness.

The staff are mostly young, mostly antipodean and without exception very good, there's a great winelist and an ambitious and inventive, (mostly successfully) chef.
It sits alongside Bassenthwaite Lake and I honestly can't think of a good reason why one wouldn't visit for a quiet Cumbrian weekend, a gustatory and bibulous stop on a northward trek or a base for a climbing or rambling break.

Gentle reader, I commend it to you

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