The ol’ pub (aka public house) has been a part of British culture for centuries.
England is known for its cozy and welcoming pubs; the best pubs create a sense of belonging, a place to be that isn’t home, but can become like a second family. Gaydon’s eclectic Malt Shovel is no exception.
The altered building, made of Hornton Stone, an ironstone found nearby on the Burton Dassett Hills, was first referenced in 1849 as an unnamed beer house. In 1874, it became known as the Malt Shovel when it was licensed to Robert Ayres.
Just off junction 12 of the M40, the Malt Shovel, opened daily, serves fresh, locally sourced food and a wide selection of cask ales, lagers, wines, spirits and soft drinks.
Everyone is welcome here including four legged friends. Though tolerated in many pubs, at The Malt Shovel, pets are offered their own doggie menu.
The pub has so many personal touches — a cozy, reading corner on a deck, stained glass windows, its’ own mascots, a parrot, a miniature schnauzer and knick knacks galore.
In addition to the special doggy menu, the proprietors’ humor can be seen in the proposed children’s menu.
- -I don’t care (chicken nuggets, skinny fries)
-I’m not hungry (bangers & mash)
-I don’t know (chicken nuggets, fries? whatever (burger, skinny fries)
…all served with choice of beans or peas) bubble & steak, homemade pizza
When we stopped in for a drink, the man at the table behind us was sneaking fries to the schnauzer waiting patiently beside his table.
“Can I take a picture of your dog?” I asked.
“Of course,” the man said and chuckled, “but Belle’s not mine. She belongs to the pub owner.”
Sure enough, the little, gray and white dog had his own doggie couch where he could reign over the bar.
The man, a friendly trucker, pointed to the names written in chalk on wood beams around the bar,
“See the names up there?” He explained. “They were people who worked for JLR (Jaguar Land Rover) engineering centers at the edge of Gaydon on the land that was once an air strip of the RAF.”
Many of the patrons lining the bar look like they just finished a work shift and stopped in for a quick pint on their way home.
The charismatic pub was cozy and charming. Gemutlich. Nicknacks decorated the walls, including a tea pot collection.
“Where you from?” The trucker asked.
“Illinois,” I told him and then added, “My husband’s French.
“Where about in France?” he asked Gerald.
“Normandy on the coast.”
“Ever heard of a tiny place called Trouville?” the trucker asked.
Gerald about fell off his chair. “That’s where I grew up.”
“ I hauled a load there,” the trucker said.
“What do you haul?”
“Blacktop and gravel when they strip the road to repave.”
“What kind of truck you drive?”
He pulled his phone out and showed me pictures of his rig.
“Drove all across France, but grew up in Warwick,” he said, “Now I live in Casablanca. When I’m on the road, I live in my truck.”
As we were leaving, I thanked the bartender and told him, “We’re just visiting, but our son and daughter-in-law moved to the area.”
“Oh I know them,” the bartender said, “they live across street from me!”
It’s a small, small world!
In the spirit of the ol’ English pubs, The Malt Shovel unites people still today.
