Restaurant: Hand and Flowers
Trail: Thames Path National Trail map printed from web
- Eating: very good, but with one or two off notes (the whitebait amuse was, well amusing). Slow-roast duck main was a clear winner, as was the mushroom (and almost certainly truffled) cream that came with the dill terrine starter.
- Hiking: 11.78mi, 4hr15mins on the march, very flat and--with the exception of the short but very slow patches of mud--it was easy and quick walking. Signposting was excellent and the path was well worn so easy to follow
- Wildlife spotted: lots of birdlife, particularly aquatic birds
- Nature's bounty: not in November, no.
- Muddy boots factor: mud, mud, glorious mud... actually, much of the trail was gravelled or asphalted, but the few short spells of mud were absolutely trenches-of-flanders from the recent rains. Wore full boots and still got muddy but at least not wet.
- Muddy boots tolerance: as usual, changed into proper footwear just outside... unfortunately we had encountered a pair of enthusiastic and friendly Labrador dogs in one of the muddier bits of the path and I wasn't fast enough fending them off. Because of the mud, they were golden labs above the shoulder and chocolate labs below the shoulder, and left a splotch down one trouser leg which the restaurant staff were kind enough to pretend not to see. Helped a lot to roll up trouser legs a bit while walking, but speckles of mud came up to mid-thigh which became more obvious as they dried in the warmth of the resto.
While England is in many ways heaven for hikers, there is a downside: it rains. It seldom rains very hard or very long (no monsoons, none of the pounding torrential sheets that movies of New York show by running fire sprinklers in the studio) but English rain can sometimes be steady and when that happens it takes more than an hour or two to dry out after it stops. This is particularly true in the winter. And it makes a great excuse to stay in bed.
Mrs. had been watching the forecast closely, and had been lobbying to just ride the train into Marlow, munch and leave, should it rain. That would mean she could have a proper lie-in. The weather forecast varied from steady all-day rain, to just a little, to everything in between. The night before, the forecast settled down as rain until 10am-ish, then grey for the rest of the day, and we--after negotiations no less serious nor less hard-fought than the SALT II talks--reached a deal which would involve an extra hour's slumber and a slightly later train, allowing us to let the rain pass before hitting the trail, and a precisely-timed single stop in only one of the two possible wayside pubs. Fair result, I'd say.
Paddington is a better place for second breakfast than Charing Cross was, with lots of places and since we were catching an 8:57 train, most of them open. Lots of people clearly do variants on what we do, as there were plenty of people with bikes or boots, and the ticket man surprised us by selling us train tickets specifically for hiking the Thames Path (detail below) when we told him our destination and return. Mrs. snoozed on the train until we got to Shiplake station at 10am and it was time to jump off-- the trail runs right past the station... from the north end of the station, cross the road and the path starts just to the right of the tracks and follows the tracks up the way. This first bit leads through the village, past several mock-Tudor houses, all nowhere near Tudor age and in mocking they range from a gentle nudging mockery to derisive and sneering oligarchitecture mocking. But at the end of the row and the last bit before walking out into a wide field by the Thames, is something that mocks much more than the Tudors and we weren't sure we believed it until another walker with a dog passed by and confirmed it: the house had a railway, ultranarrow guage at perhaps 10 or 12 inches. With a continental-style station whose clock tower reached up to almost head height. The opposite field, the local told us, was where his polo ponies trained. He didn't seem to approve.
From there, we went through a couple of smaller gates and onto a wide flood plain to the Thames-side. This immediately became countryside with diving birds on the river, and families of ducks (with odd blue bills) on the river. There was a bird circling (a kite?), a pheasant croaking in the next field which we never did spot, and what sounded like a village rugby game. At 1.35mi, the path crosses a weir on a duckboard bridge, with, appropriately enough, ducks below, rootling through the froth that gathered at the edge of the weir. To judge by the state of the froth and the empty bottles bouncing in the surf, those ducks drink a lot of cider from 2L jugs. After the weir, we can tell that we're coming into town as the people we pass on the path say hello less and less often and once within Henley town limits not at all.
Henley's a pretty little town, with a brewery right in the centre of town that Mrs. hadn't mentioned for some reason, and we crossed the main bridge just as a peleton in tight-fitting garish uniform whizzed the other way. For a rowing-famous town, there were few out on the river, but as we passed out of town on the far bank of the Thames we could see many rowing clubs, and eventually one solitary rower on the river. The riverside was asphalted and we walked quickly, not long people started to say hello again and we could hear shotgun shots in the distance and another pheasant croaking. Mrs had woken up properly by then and we were chatting more about other long-distance hikes with restaurants: not just Offa's Dyke/Offa's Lunch that we were chatting about on the way to Apicius, but surely there's other similar? The Chamonix-to-Zermatt Haute Route as a haute cuisine route?
By now there was a little spittle of rain (just enough to put hoods up on the gore-tex) and green parrots flying over. No, we weren't hallucinating: apparently there were enough escaped house-pet parrots that they've formed colonies (they're very social birds) around any wilderness in the south-east. At this point we're joined--briefly-- by another couple who are very slowmoving on account of being perhaps 40 years older than us: Mrs. comments that this will be us in 40 years, walking the trails and packing cheese sandwiches... well, maybe, but not if I (and the midweek restaurant specials we can't take yet advantage of while working) can help it. Another large wotsit (kite?) circles over, and we spot a well-rusted sign on a pier in the river pointing to the Flower Pot pub. On the road down, more fowl: turkeys and guinea fowl in the yard of the pub. We roll into the pub on the dot of noon, and our previous SALT-II negotiations mean I have precisely 25mins to pee, wash, and finish my pint, a tasty bitter from a brewery I had never heard of before.
The pub is cozy: fire in every corner, and stuffed (taxidermied, I mean) animals everywhere. We order, and are startled by London prices in a bit that's a long way from London, but can't really complain--once you get used to London prices, all the world's a bargain. In the small village pub way, I get chatting with two young fogeys on the far side of the fire... Mrs. is eavesdropping on two elderly gentlemen having a rambling conversation over their lunchtime pints. The menu at the pub is actually quite good, though neither guinea fowl nor turkey features. The pint isn't local, but very tasty, and as my 25mins are drawing to a close Mrs. decides to help me with it so as to maintain schedule.
Mrs. had been watching the forecast closely, and had been lobbying to just ride the train into Marlow, munch and leave, should it rain. That would mean she could have a proper lie-in. The weather forecast varied from steady all-day rain, to just a little, to everything in between. The night before, the forecast settled down as rain until 10am-ish, then grey for the rest of the day, and we--after negotiations no less serious nor less hard-fought than the SALT II talks--reached a deal which would involve an extra hour's slumber and a slightly later train, allowing us to let the rain pass before hitting the trail, and a precisely-timed single stop in only one of the two possible wayside pubs. Fair result, I'd say.
Paddington is a better place for second breakfast than Charing Cross was, with lots of places and since we were catching an 8:57 train, most of them open. Lots of people clearly do variants on what we do, as there were plenty of people with bikes or boots, and the ticket man surprised us by selling us train tickets specifically for hiking the Thames Path (detail below) when we told him our destination and return. Mrs. snoozed on the train until we got to Shiplake station at 10am and it was time to jump off-- the trail runs right past the station... from the north end of the station, cross the road and the path starts just to the right of the tracks and follows the tracks up the way. This first bit leads through the village, past several mock-Tudor houses, all nowhere near Tudor age and in mocking they range from a gentle nudging mockery to derisive and sneering oligarchitecture mocking. But at the end of the row and the last bit before walking out into a wide field by the Thames, is something that mocks much more than the Tudors and we weren't sure we believed it until another walker with a dog passed by and confirmed it: the house had a railway, ultranarrow guage at perhaps 10 or 12 inches. With a continental-style station whose clock tower reached up to almost head height. The opposite field, the local told us, was where his polo ponies trained. He didn't seem to approve.
From there, we went through a couple of smaller gates and onto a wide flood plain to the Thames-side. This immediately became countryside with diving birds on the river, and families of ducks (with odd blue bills) on the river. There was a bird circling (a kite?), a pheasant croaking in the next field which we never did spot, and what sounded like a village rugby game. At 1.35mi, the path crosses a weir on a duckboard bridge, with, appropriately enough, ducks below, rootling through the froth that gathered at the edge of the weir. To judge by the state of the froth and the empty bottles bouncing in the surf, those ducks drink a lot of cider from 2L jugs. After the weir, we can tell that we're coming into town as the people we pass on the path say hello less and less often and once within Henley town limits not at all.Henley's a pretty little town, with a brewery right in the centre of town that Mrs. hadn't mentioned for some reason, and we crossed the main bridge just as a peleton in tight-fitting garish uniform whizzed the other way. For a rowing-famous town, there were few out on the river, but as we passed out of town on the far bank of the Thames we could see many rowing clubs, and eventually one solitary rower on the river. The riverside was asphalted and we walked quickly, not long people started to say hello again and we could hear shotgun shots in the distance and another pheasant croaking. Mrs had woken up properly by then and we were chatting more about other long-distance hikes with restaurants: not just Offa's Dyke/Offa's Lunch that we were chatting about on the way to Apicius, but surely there's other similar? The Chamonix-to-Zermatt Haute Route as a haute cuisine route?
The pub is cozy: fire in every corner, and stuffed (taxidermied, I mean) animals everywhere. We order, and are startled by London prices in a bit that's a long way from London, but can't really complain--once you get used to London prices, all the world's a bargain. In the small village pub way, I get chatting with two young fogeys on the far side of the fire... Mrs. is eavesdropping on two elderly gentlemen having a rambling conversation over their lunchtime pints. The menu at the pub is actually quite good, though neither guinea fowl nor turkey features. The pint isn't local, but very tasty, and as my 25mins are drawing to a close Mrs. decides to help me with it so as to maintain schedule.
The way out of town leads past a lovely mock-(gentle mocking)-Georgian with statuary in the back yard and remarkable security fences, and Mrs. asks if we could live somewhere like that (a familiar conversation, as we're still renting our home) but if that's what the local pub charges, I'm sure we can't afford to live there. The field is thick with deer and cows (and one bull) as we walk along to rejoin the Thames. By now, Mrs. is hungry and we start to tramp a little faster past the forests and past what would be called a trailer park if it was in Florida: the far bank rises to steep bluffs and we can see buildings there. We pass again over a footbridge and onto the North bank... and after a couple of fields, we hit mud. Not just mud-- deep, wide, impassable mud that would suck you down like quicksand, with three-strand barbed wire on one side and the river on the other. I'm wearing hiking boots but not wellies, and Mrs has on only hiking shoes, and we make progress only by holding the unbarbed topmost strand of wire on the wire fence side of the path, so we can walk at a diagonal with our feet on the solid bit of ground directly below the wires that hasn't yet been churned to mud. This was when the Labradors bounced up to be friendly, followed by their owner in thigh-high rubber boots, which might be a bit OTT in any other circumstance but very practical here. Mrs. managed to slip all the same, and caught her gore-tex on the barbed wire... it took some doing to extract her, and typing this eight days later she still has the bruise. After a few hundred yards of this (and vowing to start carrying wellies on future hikes) we hit pavement again and step up the pace as we're now late... and very hungry indeed.We roll into the car-park at 2:40 for a 2:30 table-- and I know this is the last sitting, so rush in to ensure they don't give the table away, while Mrs. is still changing shoes and trying to make herself presentable in the parking lot. The restaurant is hot from the fires and the kitchen, and the low beamed roof means it's dark, so we needn't have worried: they showed us our table and took the plastic bag with our now mud-encrusted boots without flinching.
Mrs says: When handed the menu and wine list, it was good to see the wine list had a really wide range of reasonable value, non-French stuff, as Mr isn't much of a French fan, and normally at Michelin 2 star places you have to wade through pages and pages of Chateau this and Domaine that, and at £100+. The menu helpfully points out the dishes which have been made famous on the telly, like the slow roast duck. So I ordered the famous dishes (pigs head and the slow duck) and Mr had a couple of safer bets - a terrine and the loin of venison. This also made the wine choice quite easy, s they have a range of reds in the "Full bodied, complex" section, most of which would have matched well with all of the complex meaty flavours which were about to roll onto the table. Which to choose?? A Douro from Portugal? A hefty Madiran from SW France? Or a tub thumping Chilean Carignan, which would admit to 14.5% alcohol on the label, but might well be more than that in the glass? Looking it up later, turns out it has 92 Parker points... but I chose the Vizar 12 Meses from Douro - a Tempranillo / Cab Sauv blend with 12 months in oak, on the basis that I hadn't seen it on any other lists so should try it out.
I can't tell you very much about the venison main as I was too busy eating the slow roast duck, quite quickly. And in particular, the duck fat chips. The photo just about does them justice. I would dearly like to go back and sit at the bar and order duck fat chips with truffle butter - and then die very happily of Michelin-induced heart disease.All that bread, chips and meaty things had filled us up, so we shared the "Hand & Flowers Chocolate Cake with Salted Caramel and Muscovado Ice Cream" (though this might also have been because desserts are £9.00 each). The chocolate bit wasn't as deeply, richly, chocolate-y as the chocolate terrine at Apicius, but the salted caramel brittle and the icecream nearly made up for this. If I were to go back, I think I'd have the raspberry souffle to follow the duck fat chips.
Train station is the other side of town, and there's one an hour, so we hustled out... and hustled harder as it got closer to time... and hustling is hard after a walk and meal like all that. But we made it to the single platform in plenty of time and snoozed home quite comfortably.
Next month: White Oak after the leaves have fallen
Other people's reviews (historical):
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/oct/06/hand-flowers-two-michelin-stars
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/hotel/66073/The-Hand-and-Flowers-hotel-Chilterns-Buckinghamshire-review.html
http://www.thestaffcanteen.com/featured-chef/tom-kerridge-chef-owner-hand-and-flowers-marlow/
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/restaurants/8852323/The-Hand-and-Flowers-Marlow-Bucks-restaurant-review.html
and while the reviews do go on a bit about the stars, they're broadly right, though they also rightly hold to a very high standard. There was one (from the Grauniad, not reprinted here) that was less complimentary about the quality of the punters, which we didn't quite agree with: while our co-diners weren't quite all of Gastrorambling standard, they'd all pass muster, even the people who rolled into the carpark in a Bentley as we were changing our boots.
- Train: £9.20 each, day return, from zone 2 boundry. The train wicket man at Paddington took our out-to-Shiplake/back-from-Marlow order, and printed us normal tickets to Shiplake return (I had expected a return to/from Maidenhead or Twyford, with singles for the side-branches)... he wrote "Thames Path" on the top and stamped the back--I had never heard of this before, but apparently if you pay the more expensive return, the conductors on this route are good with it--and our return conductor said as much. Yet I haven't been able to find anything on the net about it, despite being a very sensible thing--and we wouldn't have had a clue if we had booked online as we usually do. No wonder people think using the internet or the machines to buy train tickets is a complete crapshoot on what you pay.
- Map: off the web, printed--easy to follow
- Second Brek: Caffe Nero Paddington, £7.90
- Carbohydrate Energy Drink on trail: pint of bitter, small glass of chardonnay, £8.40 at Flower Pot
- Meal: two starters at £9.00 and £10.95, two mains at £25 and £27, two glasses of prosecco £15.20, Spanish red £43, choccy cake with salted caramel £9-- tip 12.5% makes that £156.54
[this is still the spot to insert the GPS trail from the Garmin onto a map...which partially worked but for some reason only shows the last 2/3 of the hike]
