There’s no getting away from it – I’m going to sound patronising writing this. It’s not a fancy place, the Woodborough. Not got a lot to shout about, really. Its USP is, perhaps, that it’s a pub in a town. The carpets swirl; the barstaff perspire in ill-fitting shirts; the regulars humph and sup. There are pictures of old Winscombe on the walls, and some of horses. The beer is unadventurous, but well kept.
The Woodborough - solid stuff
All in all, the word that springs to mind is sturdy. It’s a you-know-where-you-are kind of place. The barstaff greet you with unadorned friendliness, and its Sunday roasts are an uncomplicated pile of deliciousness for eight quid or so. They get the papers in, and not a lot happens (at least, not during our daytime visit).
Sometimes, I worry that pubs of this ilk are going to disappear forever.
But – and there’s no getting away from it – this is because I’m pretentious. I spend too long being seen coming. I lap up my aged beef and poorly-controlled vegetable portions (yours for just £15!) in the belief that this is how life is, everywhere.
And by ‘I’ I also mean ‘you’, you know. Because you internetters, bloggers, bewhiskered, flat-capped drinkers, I see you in there too, accepting your expensive drink in those ironically-wallpapered surrounds, shiny wooden floorboards beneath your feet, enjoying the warm sensation of being around those who resemble you in some way or other.
We’re neither right nor wrong. But it’s nice to get away from whoever you are, once in a while.