Listen,
If this is middle England, sign me up. I'll don the…read moreplastic Union Jack bowler hat. I'll bob up and down like a demented Plumb Dipper to the strains of Rule Britannia. Hell, I'll vote Farage. No, stop it.
Two miles and a world away from the A1 you'll find the Olive Branch. It's exactly half way between London and our final destination Knaresborough. How serendipitous is that? What was intended to be an F1 style pit stop, driver swap, ploughman's gulpdown turned into something far lovelier.
More quintessentially English than getting into a ruck at the Harvester salad bar because the oaf before me took all the croutons, The Olive Branch is a Quintessential England that we can all admire.
Inside is all higgledy piggledy charm. The sort of place that makes the daintiest ballerina feel like a big lummox. Tentative steps, lots of crouching, trying to fit into the nooks and crannies that promise long stays when it's cold and dark out.
It's lovely but if only we'd booked the garden. Beautifully kept, thoughtfully planted and adorned with private canvas gazebos for diners to shelter from the sun, enjoy great fare and gossip about Judy Murray's choice of clobber this Wimbledon. As pretty as a picture. What's that you say? One table left? Like XL bullies, we bit their hand off.
Some wonderful touches out there. Beautifully woven blankets if it gets too cold. A lovely thought and a nice addition to the aesthetic. Tablecloths on some tables, bare wood on others. Not an accident. Nothing too clipped and precious. They've even made astroturf work.
Sun helps in these matters and it duly obliged by turning up and pushing its rays through any gaps provided by the mature grape vine that wove its way across the pergola that forms the centrepiece. Keep yer blankets ta.
The menu reads quiet confidence and elegance. Only fish and chips nodding to traditional pub fare.
Poached herb crusted halibut, fennel, sorrel, Jersey Royals. A dish made for the moment and duly ordered. The halibut done to perfection, bathed in a lush green sauce inviting enough to go paddling in. One quibble. A crust should be crusty. This crust was applied before poaching which, to my mind, isn't a crust. It didn't stop the plate being cleaned like it was an extra in a Finish ad.
Given its own separate menu was a tapas board groaning with dishes that, whilst not particularly challenging, were executed with love, care and skill. Padron peppers, gazpacho and chorizo might not set London pulses racing but each dish had integrity. The chorizo wasn't Spanish but was made down the road at the local farm. Succulent, soft, spiced. A dot of honey to set it off. Absolute winner. A croquette filled with local shards of ham, bound together by equally local cheese. Crispy shell, soft and sublime inside. As big as my fist which was pleasing given the quality. The 'ette' part is stretching things.
There were several other dishes served on this three foot long board but I don't want to coo endlessly. Oh go on then. A tranche of seabass, skin as stiff as the board it came on, crisp and brittle, soft flesh underneath, on a bed of patatas bravas. Again, not earth shatteringly avant garde but totally wonderful to eat. Chargrilled broccoli with enough salt to melt the polar ice caps and all the better for it, with toasted almonds. There's more but I have a word count to respect. My only 'complaint' - and you won't ever read this from me again - simply too much of it for one normal human to get through. Alas, I'm not a normal human and left a solitary padron pepper and some potato remnants more out of embarrassment than anything. The tapas menus came with pudding. Three cornets of different sorbets and creams and a delightfully light pistachio tart. I did some button surgery and found space. Of course, I paid for it later but gluttony is tougher work than thin people might imagine. I haven't really done the puddings justice and I haven't even mentioned the bread that came with a delicious whipped butter with taragon and olive. I don't want to dwell on it too much as its giving me indigestion. (On a serious note, if you order the Tapas menu on your own - £38pp - it is quite literally enough for three people. I can't believe they would have added more had we ordered for two.)
We sat back and bathed in sun, listened to bees guzzling lavender pollen and as we hit a shady spot time stood still as we wondered why 'dapple' sounds more pleasing than 'apple'. And there's me in my brand new bright yellow Adidas Campers. They clashed gloriously with the red hot pokers and it occurred to me that I could simply take root here or petrify into a fat gnome and stay forever. Alas, the A1 beckons.
The olive Branch has a hotel attached. We left knowing that next time this will be the destination, not the pit stop. And wondering if on the journey up here we will find a half way stop off this good in Newport Pagnell.
