There is an England I sometimes dream of, of cricket on the green and sausages for breakfast, of gin and tonics come noon and organ music drifting in from far away. It is an England of Nelson and William Blake, but also of James Mason and Terry-Thomas, of drop-top Austin-Healeys and sunburn.
It is an England that probably never existed, but it can still be visited, in a way, at the Leicester Arms. It is impossibly pretty, with its pink umbrellas and rambling greenery framing the windows. Inside, refurbished last year, it is all soft cream and wooden beams, of heavy leather chairs to dose in, fireplaces, a fine array of beer and very good food, too. Dogs patter about.
There are rooms upstairs; accept their invitation. You will wake to views of idle, lounging hills, and to an England that never really existed, but somehow still does.
High Street, Penshurst, Tonbridge TN11 8BT, theleicesterarmspenshurst.co.uk
