The Travel Critic

Thank God places like this still exist. Honestly. Before I’d even parked the car, I could feel my blood pressure dropping. A thatched roof straight out of an Enid Blyton daydream, crooked old beams that probably remember the Civil War, an open fire crackling away as though it’s been waiting centuries just to toast your toes. The Talkhouse, just outside Oxford, is the sort of place that should be on the cover of the England Tourism Board’s emergency “Save Our Pubs” campaign. Because, dear reader, if we don’t start using places like this, they won’t be here for long.

We’d planned an impromptu Friday night stopover, one of those “oh sod it, let’s not drive home” moments that Britain does so well when the weather’s crisp and the traffic’s awful. Checked in, got the key (a proper metal key, not one of those soulless plastic fobs that never work on the first swipe), dumped the bags, and made a beeline for the bar.

And what a bar. The Guinness was spot on, poured slowly, reverently, as if the barman had just completed his pilgrimage to St James’s Gate. The team were lovely: cheerful, unfussy, and the kind who make you feel like you’ve been drinking there for years, even if you’ve just rolled in off the A40. The menu was what every pub menu should be, comforting, confident, and utterly unpretentious. None of that “heritage carrot foam” nonsense. Just solid, hearty, eat-with-a-fork-in-one-hand-and-a-pint-in-the-other food.

And it was delicious. The kind of food that makes you stop mid-mouthful and go “oh yes, that’s what pub food is meant to taste like.” Everything about the evening was perfect, except for one thing.

By nine o’clock, we were the only ones left. On a Friday night. In a pub this lovely. The fire still glowing, the staff still smiling, but the place empty. And that, frankly, is heartbreaking.

Come on, Britain. What are we doing? We used to be a nation of pub-goers, of people who popped down the road for a pint and a chat, not just for the WiFi. We’re letting these beautiful, centuries-old inns fall silent while we shuffle into identikit hotel chains and eat microwaved lasagne under fluorescent lights. If we don’t start showing up again, booking that night away, having that impromptu pint, we’ll wake up one day and find the heart of the countryside replaced by an Ibis and a Wetherspoons.

And we don’t want that. We want roaring fires and friendly faces. We want pints that take their time and rooms with creaky floors. We want places like The Talkhouse, living, breathing reminders of who we are when we’re not scrolling on our phones.

So go. Book the table. Order the Guinness. Stay the night. Because thank God places like this still exist, but they won’t forever if we don’t give them a reason to.