It has all the qualities you'd expect of a proper local pub. It looks the part, with Georgian bones, an open fire, exposed beams and a garden. There's even a skittle alley. A satisfying seasonal menu on top of expected pub classics like fish and chips and burgers. But, importantly, it's not just a restaurant. The bar opens into two rooms, and you're as welcome to drink and socialise as to eat.
Most importantly, perhaps, it's owned and run by a local couple who are almost always around. Scott and Jules were long-time village residents when the last owner decided to retire. Scott, seeing the place's potential, bought it and started the transformation into the gem we see today. This summer, they did a major renovation of the interior, losing the dated elements that said "old boozer", laying wooden flooring throughout, brightening things up. The old world charm remains, but now there's a touch of modern elegance as well. All this means that there are, inevitably, locals in this local. Scott and Jules remember names, everyone chats socially, and it's clearly a meeting place for the neighbourhood.
It's the food, inevitably, that gets us through the door. (At two miles, it's just far enough to keep us from wandering by for the swift pint alone.) We've come to depend on seasonal specialities, local game, good sauces, deftly-handled vegetables and tasty desserts, all prepared well and served with attention to presentation. Saturday was no different.
I started with a duck and cranberry terrine served with warm brioche which, had I been restraining my appetite, would have been enough for the whole meal. Piers tucked into the ultimate winter warmer: an enormous home-made Scotch egg (above), centre still jigglingly soft, served on a salad studded with black pudding. Our friend Guy went a bit lighter with a line of bacon-wrapped sardines.The specials menu was so tempting we each were deciding between three possibilities. I don't think there was a chance to go wrong, however. We all ordered different things, and all proclaimed satisfaction. I had my first venison of the new season, rare with a rich sauce and horseradish mash that was worth giving up carbs the rest of the week for. Across the table, my second choice of Gressingham duck looked fabulous (and tasted so, too, in the bite he gave me). Guy's tower of liver and onions on a bed of creamy mash actually smelled good enough that I might reconsider my aversion to this dish in future. I ended with a slice of lemon tart, which was no doubt an indulgence too far, but I wanted something to cut the rich flavours that had gone before. (The boys settled for more wine.)
The next morning we went clay shooting. It was an exquisite early Autumn day: trees just touched by hints of red and yellow, clear blue skies with billowing white clouds, just a hint of chill in the air. The view from Chalky Hill offers up a panorama of rolling, pastoral beauty. There are few things so quintessentially English as being out in this landscape, surrounded by people in tweed and Barbours, well-behaved hunting dogs at their sides, practicing your shooting skills. Just in case you get invited up to the big house sometime soon to bring down a few grouse. I, of course, won't bring down anything unless I practice a great deal more … although I do seem to be better with the clays that mimic rabbits. It might be the memory of the little pests that ate my flower garden in Texas.
Such a morning pretty much demands lunch at a country pub so, being on the other side of Basingstoke, we headed for The Queen in Dummer. When we lived nearby, this was the best gastropub in the area. It's high on charm, and the menu looked promising. Just like the horseshoes, there's a standard pub menu and specials on the board. But the arrival of the food revealed a vast divide between the two kitchens. Scallops tasted past their prime and hadn't been cleaned thoroughly, corals neither removed nor fully included. That might have been excusable, but grinding your teeth against bits of shell was not. Salt and chili squid had a too-heavy breading that made them look suspiciously like they'd come out of a freezer bag. Local wild boar lacked seasoning and was let down by what was supposed to be an apple and Armagnac sauce, but was just a sweet, gloopy mess of onions.
Everything came out on the same heavy, industrial white plates, potatoes and veg piled on artlessly. Rationally, I know presentation does nothing for the taste of the food. But the Horseshoes has invested in new china of different shapes to show off different dishes, and dresses them with an artful tower here, or a swirl of balsamic glaze there. It ads to the sense of occasion. At The Queen, the plates looked no different than what you might dish up at home in a hurry.
Such a stark contrast, so soon after a fine dinner at The Horseshoes, reminded us that if we're staying local … we might as well stay really local. Because we have something special on the doorstep. And those of you without the gastropub of your dreams? Climb in the car and head to North Hampshire. We'll meet you for a pint. And maybe the chef's tasty rabbit papardelle with mustard cream sauce.
Sadly, The Four Horseshoes lost its chef during the summer of '15 and the owners decided they'd had enough of the business. A change of management is on the cards. Until new ownership and a fresh review, this article is no longer an endorsement, but a fond memory of what a local can be.
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