Norfolk notes - the Hoste Arms party

Burnham Market, known as 'Chelsea on sea' because so many bloody well-heeled Londoners have second homes there, is home to The Hoste Arms. This is a pub, hotel and restaurant (I think the appropriate word is actually 'Inn' but this conjures up images of some ghastly corporate attempt to recreate an 'Olde Worlde' atmosphere through the simple application of horse brasses and wittily placing a picture frame around the wide screen plasma telly showing the footy or, alternatively, something from either the middle ages or Dickens that features a wood-smoke fug and rushes on the floor).

Actually that second image is not a bad description. Some bloke in a stove pipe hat, a disturbing moustache and far too many syllables in his name to be taken seriously would probably feel at home in the bar at the Hoste. They do a log fire, a comfy seat and good beer.

And champagne by the glass. And that's when you start to notice the differences. Because the Hoste is not a gastro pub, or even a pub. It's quite simply, to quote my sister, in a class all of it's own. There's the bar, which is lovely, then there's a lounge bit, where you can have a coffee, then there's the restaurant, then the rooms, then the garden, then the courtyard, each growing progressively posher in an understated way.

Because it's like a great boozer. What makes a great boozah? It's more than the beer and the etched glass and the tiles and the bar staff and the locals and the quiet and the peace and the sense of there being no place more perfect than this; it's all that and gin too, wrapped up in a warm sense of being safe and with friends. And that's just when you've popped in for a cheeky half at lunchtime. Imagine that perfect understated boozah atmosphere, but extrapolated out across an entire inn! In a word, special.

So, when we stopped by and found out that they were doing a party in aid of the village Christmas lights, a ticket sounded like a sound investment. We were promised a glass of fizz on arrival, nibbles, a charity auction and a disco.

OK, so let's set our expectations, we might, might we not, plan to turn up early because the nibbles always run out early and the disco will be a bit crap and the do will be in a marquee that has seen better days and might possible double as one of those white 'scene of crime' tents that the police use.

Not quite.


Although the stamp on the hand was proper, classic school disco, the two six foot tall (seven foot with the feather head dress) Vegas show girls bearing trays of vodka jelly shots and wearing, essentially, sequins, was very much not. It takes a lot to persuade me to down a vodka jelly shot, but having it proffered by somebody in a sparkly bikini and feathers will do it.

And there was something for the ladies too! The Hoste has one of those 'calendar girls' type calendars on sale to help raise money for the Christmas lights also. Lots of pictures of blokes grinning from behind strategically placed marrows and women standing behind trays of plump looking food.


It struck me that the bloke circulating with the mini-burgers was wearing an apron and no shirt. When he tured round I realised that he was in fact wearing an apron. The view was an excellent advert for buns.


The food, served thankfully also by staff who were senior enough to be allowed trousers and a shirt, kept coming all evening, bite after bite of conventional and unconventional party food. The chicken nuggets were superb and their coating was volcanically hot, which is no doubt why a lot of folk uttered the name of that Icelandic volcano - 'arglebarglehittleargle' - upon tasting them. Top snack of the night though was fish and chips. A single nugget of battered fish served with a handful of fries and some tartar sauce. Stupendous.

The charity auction included rounds at local golf clubs, which allowed all the single women to identify who all the men were with lots of money and too much time on their hands. Other lots included use of a carpenter for a day and helicopter rides (which went for a fortune - well, can one really put a price on turning up in Waitrose car park to do the weekly shop in a helicopter? Yes, it's two grand).

Finally the disco. I like to think I distinguished myself and it also marked a watershed moment when my track of choice for hard core uproar on the dance floor changed from camp classic 'Dancing queen' to the Black Eyed Peas's song about having a good night tonight, whatever the hell it's called. All I know is that all those Friday nights leaping round the kitchen unwinding with a glass of something and some banging tunes finally paid off and, from the looks of fear and wonderment that greeted my moves, I feel I impressed.

The only thing to do now is to try and return some time between the lights being turned on, and Christmas, so that I can see the bulb I sponsored.