“I could write a book here” – review

Zeno’s Arrow Paradox states that if an object in motion is seen at any time, it is still, and therefore, since time is a series of instants, motion is impossible. “Of course,” you chuckled, “but like all of Zeno’s paradoxes, it’s patently absurd.” Well, I would argue, Zeno never returned from Cornwall to Cambridge.

I’m usually near Tiverton on the edge of Somerset when I’m channeling Hunter S Thompson’s need for hard drugs. I’ve been driving for hours and I realize there are countless hours to go and my will to live is leaving like a flock of frightened bats. So this time, I had a plan. I had noticed on my list of places to try ‘Compasses, Chicksgrove, Wiltshire’ and decided to stop in for the night, grab something simple and then head out in the morning refreshed.

I’ve never been to the Nadder Valley. And honestly, why should you? I think of the countryside as a soft play area for terminal romantics. The kind of people who are so distracted by its gentle shapes and colors that they ignore the risks of humiliation, injury and disease. There are animals, tractors, earth and Jeremy Clarkson. And I was still thinking about it as I exited the B-roads and crossed the outlying grounds of Fonthill Abbey.

William Beckworth was a stonemason, but his grand ideas brought greatness to his land. Every view is accounted for, every line of sight appealing, and as you pull into Chicksgrove, the engine hissing its last fumes, there’s a honey-stone garage where an attendant actually pumps your fuel. It’s absurd. Is beautiful. It’s enough to change a man’s mind.

Outside the village, you turn onto a lane that is narrower than a single track. You could probably bring down a thin horse if it would inhale. Halfway there is a parking lot and a building with an inconspicuous sign with an ominous Masonic logo telling you that you’ve arrived at Compass. There are several squat stories, whitewashed and built right into a notch in the valley wall. There are a few tiny, defensible windows, a low, wooden door, and some sort of covered outdoor staircase for access to rooms or sword fighting.

I try not to believe the myths old pubs tell about themselves, but an A4 sheet in my room told me that the Compasses had originally been built, so a stream ran through the bar. I would have been just as ready to believe that it was set up by a wandering band of hobbits. It was certainly not designed for our century, or even for someone of human height.

There’s a decent wine list, plenty of good beer, a log fire and a dog-friendly attitude. They seated me in a corner made up of high-backed corners, lit by a candle, and carefully set out matchless old flatware and a glass of wine. I wasn’t sure whether to order or roll a 20-sided die and warm up for orc combat.

It was an extremely comforting menu. Highly competent bar snacks for the beer tanner brigade, celery soup with truffle oil and homemade bread, mackerel pâté, pickles, toast, but they had me at rare Wiltshire cider with homemade pickles and chutney. Yes I know. If I had any class, I would have ordered this after dessert, but I didn’t, and I didn’t and I’m glad, because the topping and the bread baked on site made such a happy combination of smooth, rich and dense. that one. . . (insert your own joke about city boys/real estate agents etc). There was a decent white Burgundy that sat so happily with him that it felt right to move on to the next stage of the Quest.

Am I alone in this? I’m worried about the orzo. You know the stuff. Small pieces of pasta in the shape of tiny torpedoes or creepy, streamlined rice. There is something in this. I find the elegant logic of its design—so smooth that when smeared with sauce it actually flows down the throat—well, just a little menacing. But chef Dave Winter, already standing out as a talent worth noting, included it in a fish stew. It’s counterintuitive, I know. All orzo, by British law, should be served from a Le Creuset with chicken and lemon, but this guy knows what he’s doing.

There were lumps of monkfish and some highly creditable prawns and the broth was rich and clean with just enough saffron and chilli. What was particularly delightful, and increasingly rare, was that this felt like a talented chef improvising, rather than an over-the-top “signature” dish. It wasn’t in any language – let’s face it, classic Mediterranean seafood has no place in The Shire, but it felt like he was sitting there tasting the broth and thinking, yeah, you know what he needs? Some saffron and some chilli. It’s not a bouillabaisse, it’s pure Nadder Valley, sui generis and bloody beautiful.

I had a raspberry raspberry sundae to send me down the rickety stairs to sleep in what looked like smart hay and around 3am I woke up and realized I was probably the only person in the building. A million acres of darkness around me and total silence. Disconcerting, but cute. I could write a book here.

They sent me on my way in the morning with the kind of fried breakfast I write Nordic poetry about. And I drove home satisfied.

I was motionless on the A303, looking left towards Stonehenge, when I suddenly understood the true nature of time. Zeno was right. If it was possible for The Compass at Chicksgrove to stop everything quietly for a perfect moment, it seemed quite believable that movement was impossible and that I would never get home. Strange thing is. . . I didn’t even bother.

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