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A friendly and cosy, rustic pub, with a great atmosphere and a mix of mad customers. You will not find a Fruit Machine or Juke Box in this pub. Decent house and country wines. A gentle lurcher/collie cross called Daisy can sometimes welcome you (other times she will just ignore you); Tables on spacious and attractive lawn, good downland walks straight from the pub. Quiz Night is Monday - two rules - First Rule: Teams of no more than four. Second Rule: The Quizmaster's decision is final. Last but not least, the pub is the global headquarters of the Portugese Racing Sardine Club. How it came to be this is a subject of constant debate. It seems likely though that this club was formed as a sort of joke that grew into a hoax, which I have been told was even reported upon in the national press. History Records indicate that a form of coaching inn existed in Dundridge at least three hundred years ago and maybe earlier. Canals, railways and modern transport had not radically changed the landscape, so if you wanted to travel you walked, rode a horse or took a ride on one of the many coaching services. It is here that the Bowman came into its own - if you wished to travel south, Damson Hill's gradient demanded heavy horses for that part of the ride and whilst farm horses were pressed into service, the demand became so great that stables were needed at the top and the bottom of the hill for the horses to rest after such important work. The Pub, then called "The Cat and Fiddle", was doing well and was rebuilt completely in finest local red brick approximately one hundred and thirty years ago, having been completely destroyed in a fire. In fact having been re-built it spent 25 years or more as a private house (May it never happen again!) It re-opened as a pub named "The Jubilee" around the Golden Jubilee of Queen Victoria. The old name can still be seen, partially obscured by the pub toilets. I have no record of all the licencees, but one of them, Tommy Weston who was a licenced slaughterman and used to kill and sell meat at the pub to suppliment his income. Tommy could be seen dressing the joints in the pub, while talking and drinking with the customers, until banned from doing so by the health authorities. In fact one of the doors of the pub had a groove cut in it to hold chicken's legs when they were plucked and drawn and hung. The name "The Hampshire Bowman" ? The Pub has had that name since the early 1970's re-named by the licensee, Stan Montague whose wife had an interest in toxophily (she was in fact an olympic standard archer and founder member of the adjacent archery club) In 1987, Charles Scott bought the pub from Gales Brewery and it became a Free House. Tim Park then ran the pub and kept its spirit alive for almost 15 years, through rough and smooth times. In August 2002, Tim handed over the reins to Heather Seymour. The handover was smooth, Heather having been an assistant manageress at the pub for 3 years, about 10 years previously. The pub prides itself on now running a sort of "Rolling Beer Festival"
Today Now the Pub enters a new phase. Its popularity has meant that it was sometimes almost impossible to get a seat inside. Cooking the number of meals demanded was also a problem. After years of blocked drains something also needed to be done about the plumbing. But how do you extend the pub without somehow wrecking its rustic charm? Answer, put in a lot of thought on how to utilise the present space better, to grow without growing too much? So after many iterations of the proposed solutions, a great compromise has been reached. The kitchen has been completely modernised and moved, a new bar has been added, a new toilet block too. Outside, there is a new patio, with a heated cover for the smokers. There is a new surface on the car park. Under the ground there is a new sewerage and drainage system (maybe less said about this the better). AND the old bar has been left unscathed. Heather has put a great deal of time and effort moving this pub to this next phase, let's make sure the improvements mean the pub stays around for another hundred years at least (Or at least while I can still find my mouth with the glass) |
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