On account of numerous disturbing inadequacies, I had to stay in a ‘hotel’ for a few days before moving into my new accommodation in Birmingham. During this time, some other ‘guests’ decided to take ecstasy and dance around all night in the ‘room’ above me.
Needless to say, after one night of this, I needed a drink. For some reason, I thought it might be a good idea to go to my new house to see if the landlord had done any of the 3 things we agreed he would do before I moved in. Nothing had been done. It looked as though nobody had visited the place in months.
So I looked for the nearest pub. Of course Harborne village, lovely though it is, has been gentrified. One has great difficulty finding somewhere to eat or drink which isn’t part of some awful national chain which seem to make a living on reducing comestible quality across the board.
But, fear not, White Horse came to the rescue. I got my reasonably priced cider and sat down. I write better when I’m furious. And in the company of animals. Thankfully, in addition to its many positive points, White Horse is also home to Socks.
This regal dame is a permanent fixture at White Horse. Though the picture does not show them, her paws are snow white, earning her the moniker Socks. Looking at here here and seeing how agile she is leaping across the bar, one would not dream that Socks is actually 20 years old!
The White Horse has become one of my favourite pubs in the Midlands. The atmosphere is friendly; the staff are great and the art lining the walls is fascinating to look at. But if Socks isn’t enough to convince you of the White Horse’s quality, I am unsure whether anything shall!