I landed at Heathrow Friday May 25th at 10:00 in the morning on my last trip to ferry the Baron back to Miami. My plan was to take the train south to Goodwood, hop in the plane, which I’d been told was all ready to go, and make it to Iceland by Friday night. As I’ve already told you the plan went right in the crapper when I was told that the bank was still playing the fool and I would be stuck until at least Tuesday. Being stuck in a small village in southern England isn’t nearly as much fun as one might think but it can be made a lot more tolerable if there is a classic British pub within walking distance. The Anglesey Arms is just such a pub. Located in a beautiful old building with a nice restaurant and a lovely garden area the Anglesey Arms was just what the doctor ordered for a stranded pilot. Run by a mother and son, the father having recently succumbed to cancer, the pub was a place that reminded me of the bar in Cheers only with dogs welcome inside. I spent three nights there talking and drinking with the staff and patrons including Richard the bartender who’d grown up in Africa with his father who was in the foreign service and Terry the golf nut. I really wish we pubs like that in the US.
