I haven’t been in a pub eating a ploughman’s for too long. The ploughman’s I remember best was eaten after I had dashed through slanting sunlight and hail into the shelter of a pub near Blenheim. The cheese was local, the bread was crusty, and the ale was brilliant.
I was settled in front of a sputtering fire when a Jack Russell came tactfully to my side, sat up on his haunches and looked me deeply in the eyes. He said not a word, but he quickly convinced me his palate for cheese was the equal of mine.
We had a splendid lunch.