The perfect pub & the perfect steak
The autumnal pub of our dreams
There is a pub on the Welsh border that serves the perfect fillet steak.
This is the kind of pub that is written about by people who have never been to a pub. A thick-walled building that could tell a hundred stories. A generous fire in a wrought iron fireplace. Walls gently splattered at knee height by shaking muddy dogs, and adorned at shoulder height with photos of local World War 2 landgirls pitchforking the harvest onto a horse-drawn-cart. And, whether full or empty, a timelessness that gifts a place to drink warm ale and watch the rain, walkers, traffic flow by outside.
In this pub, though, if you choose the right picnic bench you'll be overlooking the Black Mountains, a spine of hills across southeast Wales, tipping just over the border into England. As the clouds move across the landscape, the sun breaks through, spotlighting stories of the land — a family farm set into the hillside, fields where hedges meet a copse which meet a low stone wall, a small car struggling up a narrow road to the perfect parking place for hikers to spill out onto the unmanaged upper third of the hills.
It was four years ago we first went to The Carpenters Arms in Walterstone. After a long morning's walking my partner, Alex, had persuaded me that our adventure deserved a fillet steak, the second I had ever had. More accustomed to a post-hike lunch of petrol station bread, rucksack warmed cheese, and a cucumber sliced with a sandy penknife, we giggled with giddiness at our plates. Medium rare fillet steak, generous and tender, thick cut chips, boiled peas, fried mushrooms, and half a griddled tomato. As our muscles eased and our bellies filled, so we enjoyed the best pub lunch we'd ever had.
Yesterday, my four year dream of returning came true. Dog-sitting at a house just up the road, I knew that it was time for a pilgrimage to the pub that we hadn't stopped talking about.
In Walterstone at this time of year the sound of the wind through the valley is becoming gradually more muted as the autumn leaves fall. Occasional murmurations of birds in the last days of migration training fly past, a brush stroke on the sky, the sound of their flight like a gentle sea retreating over pebbles. Cars, mucky with dark, thick mud left on the road from tractor tracks, change gear on the corner by the pub before the hilly ascent, sometimes to reappear in reverse if meeting the school coach coming in the other direction.
I arrive with my book and the dog I'm looking after, Lola. It's just past six, early enough to watch the tipping of day to dusk over the hills. The open fire has been lit. On its mantel framed photos of hugging people watch over the pub-goers as they order at the small bar. My table for one, where I later learn the landlady, Vera, sits to eat, is directly opposite the fire. The best spot in the house. Lola, well trained in the art of pub-going, jumps up onto the dark wood benches that surround our little nook, and lies down to watch the flames.
We are the only ones so far. This time here without Alex, he's off adventuring elsewhere, I order what I know he is persuading me to from afar — fillet steak, medium-rare with peppercorn sauce, and a glass of merlot. And take your time, I say, I am in no rush whatsoever. I open my book.
Other folk arrive, locals who know each other, some who don't. I recognise a couple who I drove past on their bikes earlier in the day. Everyone, without fail, says hello to us. I am taught how to say Llanthony properly from one bartender, recommended a walk alongside a nearby canal, and learn the word aur, the Welsh for gold. Lola raises an eyebrow to some people, and jumps down to greet others based, I guess, on their treat-giving potential. Each time she comes back to settle by my side, her chin resting on her front paws.
I hear the latch on the back door open and close, a drift of cooler air curls around my calves. The barlady appears around the corner of our cosy nook with my dinner, double checks I have everything I need, puts another log on the fire, and leaves me to it.
A glistening steak mottled chestnut brown and lightly chargrilled with a wooden handled steak-knife balanced underneath. Chips, peas, mushrooms, tomato. A small jug of peppercorn sauce. This is just what I remembered.
I have a sip of wine, and cut into the fillet with the grain. It is perfectly pink on the inside, tender, delicious, moreish. I pour over the sauce, keeping some back for later. It is not so punchy as to detract from the steak, but enough to bring a richness to the lean cut. The chips, crisp and fluffy. Lola sits up, eyes wide, looks at me, looks at my plate, looks back to me, pauses, then huffs and lies down with her back to me when she realises she's not in luck.
With one hand I text Alex - guess where I am? It will be a while before I get a reply, such is the nature of his adventure, but it's comforting to share it with him nonetheless. I can feel our feet in slightly soggy walking boots crossed over each other under the table, see his face lit in the late afternoon sun as he looks at me, smiling, claiming that this is his perfect day. I might be here on my own, but somehow this is our treat.
I take my time, reading my book, a bite for each few sentences. Eventually I take pity on Lola, placing my last couple of chips between her paws. Having watched the fire die down for a while, I ask to pay the bill. As I leave, I glance at the people looking out across the pub from the photos on the mantelpiece above the fire, and give them a gentle grin. The stories they must see.
Out of the back door, and I pop my head into the kitchen, on the ground floor of the adjoining house, to say thank you. Where's this lovely dog I've been hearing about? I'm asked by Sharon, so Lola gets to say thank you too, before taking loud offence to a cat hiding behind the nearby pot plant. We head towards the car.
The stars are out. I spot the Plough, the Seven Sisters, and Orion with his belt. The moon isn't fully up yet, but its light is starting to cast shadows across the fields. Some geese flap overhead heading home for the night. Their rhythmic calls make Lola look to the sky. I smile at her. If someone could write the perfect evening in a pub, Lola, this would be it. She looks at me, earnestly, eager to stretch her legs. Okay then, I sigh, let’s go home.
If you’d like to find out more about The Carpenters Arms, check our their website for opening times, menu, and location. Also note, at time of writing they only take cash.
www.thecarpentersarmswalterstone.com/index.htm
They’re not on social media, so you’ll just have to go to find out for yourself!
So tempted to just stop working and jump in the car. Wonderful evocative writing.
Such a lovely piece Rachel- you took me to the Carpenters Arms with you and made me dream of having a dog called Lola. A x