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16 Jul 2004
There's a feature in the latest issue of the CAMRA newsletter about a pub called the Square and Compass in Dorset. It's that rare breed—a real cider pub. Apparently they have up to 10 real ciders at a time. Ten! In most pubs (even ones which have real ale), you're lucky to get one proper cider—note that I don't consider bland abominations like Woodpecker or Dry Blackthorn as proper cider. It sounds like my idea of heaven, particularly as there's also no jukebox, games machines or piped music, and there's a great view from the pub garden, where free-range chickens cluck about. Just to top off the perfection levels, there's also a natural history museum attached to the pub, and it's in a village called Worth Matravers. I love any place with a name that sounds like a louche character in a bodice-ripping novel.
Worth Matravers burst through the door of Kitty Silveroak's boudoir, eyes smoldering and nostrils flaring. "Sir, you forget yourself!", exclaimed Kitty, covering her heaving bosom with the bedclothes. "I must have you, Kitty" breathed Worth, huskily. "Do not try to pretend you have not been admiring the cut of my breeches."
Ahem. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. That's what cider does for you, you see—it loosens the tongue and stimulates the imagination. I think it's a great shame that cider isn't more widely appreciated. Many people get put off it in late adolescence when they overindulge on Blackthorn (or 'snakebites') and have a learned aversion to cider as a result of the hideous hangover they wake up with the next day. In fact, cider shouldn't really be drunk—like ale—in pints. Some real ciders are almost as strong as wine (and just as complex and subtle in flavour), and are best drunk in small glasses. Cider-making has a very long history in this country, and there are wonderful old apple varieties with fantastic names like Greasey Pippin, Sheep's Nose, Foxwhelp, Slack-me-girdle and Merrylegs. How can anyone dislike a drink made with apples called Slack-me-girdle? It's such a shame that real cider production seems to be in a slow decline, and ancient orchards are being grubbed up because they are 'uneconomic'. I think I'll be making a visit to the Square and Compass at some point to do my bit to support real cider makers and sellers. They also serve real ale, so Mr. Bsag will be happy too.
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Well if you are ever down in my neck of the woods maybe you should visit Middle Farm where they have more ciders than you can shake a fairly hefty tree trunk at, arranged roughly in order of dryness, and are happy to give you a little plastic thimble to try before you buy. The farm shop is pretty good too.
by ThoughtBadger @ 16/07/2004 10:07 pm • Permalink •
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john: That would be "Love in the Inglenook" by <a >Daphne Olthwaite</a>. 
Andrew Willett: Yes, it can have strange effects on the laws of physics. I recently had a pint (against all my advice above) of a really nice single variety cider (Kingston Black, I think) in a pub, not realising that it was 7.5% alcohol. When a friend told me, it did go some way to explaining why I was swaying about as if in a stiff breeze. The beatific grin on my face was explained by the deliciousness of the cider. On the topic of cider in the US, I suffered bitter disappointment on my first visit to the States (for which I might even be able to sue) when I ordered a cider and found that it was nothing more than rather poor apple juice.
ThoughtBadger: Whoa! The National Collection of Cider and Perry! And goats! Right, we're off there for a visit as soon as we've got settled in the new place.
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I just stumbled over your blog cos I'm off to the Square and Compass this Sunday! Then I read your profile (or whatever it's called) and thought I'd leave a note.
You must get yourself to the S&C. It is the MOST FANTASTIC pub ever. The landlord, Charlie, is perhaps the nicest person I've ever met.
It's the stonecarving festival (held mainly at the pub) for the next two weeks, starting this weekend. (Where we all alternately carve or suffer the aftereffects of too much free cider and moan about carving being too painful. Or in my case, I used to forge the chisels up for the carvers (I'm a blacksmith by training) then moan about that being too painful instead)
You can find me at Livejournal, username 'Elfbert' if you wanna know more! (I'm one of those non-girly girls too...or, as my all-male workmates call me, a 'geezerbird')
by Elf @ 23/07/2004 8:08 pm • Permalink •
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What was the name of that novel again?----- It astonishes me that here in the States—a country that still celebrates Johnny Appleseed as a folk hero—it's so damn hard to find real cider. (Digression: The good Mr. Chapman wasn't starting commercial orchards all over the western frontier because the homesteaders would be baking pies, oh no. Cider was cheap, easily made, and could be safely stored for later use. Plus there was the alcohol thing. As a result, it was quite popular. Michael Pollan's The Botany of Desire includes a fascinating section on Chapman and the history of apple propagation.)
Where was I? Right. Precious little of the good stuff in the States. Our friends in Oxford, when we are able to go visit them, often make a point of putting a glass or two in front of me somewhere along the way. For which I am invariably grateful, even if does tend to make the floor go all mushy.
by Andrew Willett @ 16/07/2004 9:07 pm • Permalink •