In such a pub it’s calming to remember the past. Here in Winchester, in what was once England’s Saxon capital, is a room of crooked tankards and mismatched paintings, curtains hanging mournfully before the once-varnished wood of tables and chairs.
Chatter in these pubs echoes as with its history; if the carpet could whisper to you while you order from the bar, it would tell you to “mind your head”, to “avoid her in the corner with the paper”.
