Country Pub Identity Crisis

Mal, Lisa and the Team 

Welcome you to the Duck at Forton

This chalked on blackboard welcoming effortlessly clashes with the otherwise sophisticated leather sofa-d, high backed armchair-ed, worn and creaky oak floor boarded ambiance. As if it matters. 


Have a Spooky Halloween

See the Duck's ghoultastic menu

Mal, Lisa or one of the Duck at Forton's welcoming team have sprayed fake cobwebs over handpumps, reproduction hunting scenes, the shelf full of Tyrell's crisps and wall mounted hardly used wine rack. Coffee machine untouched. Château neuf du crap. 


The Duck at Forton. A traditional 18th century coaching inn.  Eat. Drink. Relax. Despair.  Breakfast, Brunch - very 18th century - Afternoon Tea, Dinner, Fish Fryday. I ask you. The management covering all eventualities. Who gives a duck. 


Candle lit alcoves clash with red led lighting strung around the specials board. Depressingly ordinary specials. Bored. The waitresses fresh faced, eager to please. To clinch the add on sale - coffee, liqueur, dessert? To be off home soon. 


In a side room a corner holds skittles, shove halfpenny, something on a swinging string

In the other, the twinkling, flashing, chachinging who wants to be a millionaire gaming zone. The place doesn't know what it wants to be. An identity crisis country pub. 


GMJ 2014