Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: Living in the lanes

We have spent so long in rural parts this trip that it is almost a culture shock to visit a city. We have driven to a couple of larger places while in Norfolk and the visits are a disconcerting experience we are not terribly keen to repeat. So much graffiti there that we just don't see in busy and productive rural parts. So many homeless folk living on cardboard boxes in alcoves in the streets, some with that wide-eyed down-and-desperate-look about their eyes. Practically every 12 and 13 year old seems to be pushing a pram. Teenage boys, out with their mates, have a tag-along toddler. So many store fronts are dead, emptied and barred, gathering mounds of street litter in dirty chinks and crevices. And, as in Italy, the larger cities feel as if they could do with a good sanitizing clean.

The country lanes are where we have been hanging out. Behind a farm fence we camp as the cows head off to be milked. We spend much of our day chatting: to the local farmer who pulls his tractor into a passing place to let our motorhome by, or the village publican who has all the best angles on how to make ends meet, or the church ladies, who know exactly who goes where, with whom, and why. Not much escapes country folk.

We have noticed a change down these lanes and byways. It is like a Fight for the Little Man. And it started with the Farm Shops we have increasingly seen since Essex. Farmers here, as in France, are attempting to do so much more, it seems, to keep the profits closer to home. At the simplest level there are honesty boxes by the gate - with fresh free range eggs, new-grown potatoes, or punnets of strawberries. Spare produce put out the front to share, for a fare price. There are, of course, those who take their produce to market. Most of them still do, I would guess. Others supervise the sale of a good selection of their produce. They have cobbled together a rough-hewn stall, or set up a trailer display. And they sit under the shade of an umbrella nearby to reap some reward from their produce, without having to go to market. It must be worth their while, or they would not bother a second or a third day. And some do it all the while they have produce to sell.

Some have built themselves a complete farmshop. Right there where their farm and produce is. In the lanes. And people drive in and out often. Others, like some of the farmers we've stayed with have set up their own produce shops in their nearest village. Often their shop is the only provender in the village selling fruit and vegetables, let alone fresh and organic pork, geese eggs and local cheeses. This type of branching out seems to be on the increase in the counties we are driving.

Today we came across a variation on this theme. A way to make a dying village pub trade into a roaring success. One that is so incredibly successful that I can see it being used as a template by others.

In a village of barely a couple of hundred folk, we stopped for our early morning espresso at a pub that was open. For a pub in a village to even be open during the day, these days, is a surprise in itself. More often than not they are closed till around 6pm. And their doors close for the night by 9pm. Sad times for pubs, we have been hearing. It is just not worth their while, they say: what with drinking laws, the global financial crises, the gloom of the times, etc. We listen to the tales of woe often. Pubs are, we are told, a dying species. Well, this one isn't. We walked in, eyes wide open -- and noticed that every table was set with wine glasses for lunch and most had Reserved signs on them. For lunch. And there were well over 100 seated spaces indoors, while outdoors there was a garden terrace, and beyond that, lawn spaces decked out in wooden tables and gay umbrellas, for those who might choose a less formal aspect.

There was nothing spectacular about this pub. It looked as though it had once been an old World War 11 pub, as though it might have been the local for a nearby airfield crew. It still had war mementoes as a theme in its decor. It was even a khaki colour, very generic, though fresh: and its old wooden beams were completely painted out to give everything a clean simple look, and a minimalist leanness.

The coffee was superb. The barista, dressed in black, said it would be, when he served it. It was. We asked to see the wine list. Four double sided pages: with three or more Australian wines on the list -- but with a preference for the French. We asked to see the lunch menu. Only to be told that it was new daily, that is was too early to be complete yet, that it would appear around noon, just as the tables would start filling for lunch. The head waiter, also dressed in stylish black, joined the chat because we were clearly Aussies -- and he, like many young foodies in England, had been to Oz, working and enjoyed it.

How do you survive? we asked, when all around pubs are closing their doors, admitting defeat? Food, he admitted. This was basically a food pub, and they catered to that demand with their chefs -- tho', even at that time of the morning there were more than a dozen folk chirpily drinking coffee, beer or wine in various parts of the dining room space: so drinking was far from on hold. Well, the pub was open for a start.

But good food, and it was basically traditional British food with a lean towards the French, he said; food 'that people wanted' that he felt was the key to their success. To that end, he said, the pub had bought a shop across the street to service not only the pub meals, but passing diners and the community: a large stylish provender of local food supplies that went from farm to fork, including fish. This was, we noticed, before we even entered the pub and knew the connection -- doing a roaring trade.

We popped across to the shop when we'd finished chatting and bought our dinner of smoked mackerel and a purple basil jam for a tasty edge. The store was a cross between farm produce available from a farmer's roadside stall, and produce that would be at home on the shelves of the finest Delicatessans in the land. Only more local, crisy fresh and heavily patronised. Crowds were queuing to be served in this small village where not much else was functioning except the pub and the pub's food supply shop. It doesn't hurt, the Maitre D' said, that we are only 8 miles from Norwich. Norwich folk frequent us daily. Or that folk from King's Lynn don't hesitate to drive nearly an hour to come to dinner.

We didn't check, but it would not be at all surprising if out beyond the garden tables in this pub there was a fully functioning herb and vegetable garden. Fresh and local being their theme. We are seeing this more and more at these successful pubs. I hope you are not hoping for a reservation for dinner, the Maitre D' said regretfully. We have 130 bookings and not one seat available. We'd have loved to have stayed for dinner. But, it is places like this we remember, and, if possible, return to. And one can only imagine what crowds this pub and deli combination brings to this lucky village on any sunny Sunday. It's amazing what we see down these country lanes!

oooOOOooo