The Dorset, known colloquially for centuries as ‘The Cats’ after the two felines that adorn the coat of arms, has been a public house since 1690. But it hasn’t had the same name the whole time. In the early 80s, it was run by a navy chap who changed its name to the Manxman after his ship. A colleague tells me it was so cold in winter, you had to put your beer in front of the fire to make it drinkable. Oh yes, and there was a pig, he tells me, running around the garden and occasionally wandering inside.

I arrive to find no animals, only snow, in the garden and a lovely warm fire inside, so things have changed. My companion arrives well-wrapped up for the Arctic conditions, wearing eye-catchingly bear-like leather-and-rabbit-fur flying gloves. Despite this, we’re left standing at the bar for some minutes whilst the people behind aren’t apparently serving anyone else. In my imaginary school of good service, I’d perhaps suggest that even if they are busy with the hotel side of the business, that they meet the eye of the people waiting in a welcoming, smiley ‘be with you shortly’ sort of way. We pass the time perusing the specials board, a bar food menu and a long restaurant menu. We feel warming food is in order so my companion decides to order game pie and chips. I dither about delicious-sounding tempura hake with coconut rice, but instead opt for a more colourful dish of pheasant breast with red cabbage. Both are from the specials board and are priced at £9.95.

We seat ourselves near a window in the restaurant to admire the snowy vista. I’m thinking it must be a nice place in summer to sit outside supping a pint. The young waiter brings our food, then cheerfully turns down the piped music at our request. Service improves significantly from this point. It transpires that he is manning almost all the decks single-handedly since the inclement weather has been causing numerous problems for staff getting in. We tuck into our generous plates of food. My companion’s game pie is a handsome beast, topped with a golden puff of flaky pastry. It comes served with chips and a medley of cubed parsnip, swede and turnip. “Excellent meat,” she says, “and lots of it. No cheap fillers and the gravy is good too.” My pheasant breasts are fine, the mash underneath creamy and tasty. The red cabbage surrounding it has rather a strong flavour of vinegar.

After we’ve finished, we flick through the menu in search of desserts. I spot a page I hadn’t noticed before, offering a two-course lunch for a reasonable £7.95. We finish with an espresso and Earl Grey tea served in a pot, and a crème brulée to share, served with lovely raspberries. It’s clear that fresh vanilla pods have been used, which is good, but their blow-torch must have been playing up because the sugary topping, which should be crisp, has a more toffee-like consistency. We leave, however, feeling sufficiently warmed up and well-fed enough to face the snowy walk back along Cliffe and up School Hill.
Emma Chaplin

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