Day 10 - What's "inn" a pub name?

I have a fascination with pub names, particularly those that harken back to a time in history.  As we've toured around the UK over the years, we've come across some unusual pub names. In London, near Tower Hill which was the site of more than a few public executions, stands The Hung Drawn and Quartered. The equally gruesome The Bucket of Blood serves up locals in Cornwall. Some names are admittedly funny simply because word usage has changed, like the Cock and Pullet. But you have to love that the Brits don't care...they hang on to the tradition of these names -- political correctness be damned.

On this trip, we haven't really been in the UK very long, yet we have already been in several pubs named The King's Head and one called the Queen's Head. Interesting that they are not given the name of a specific monarch, although many signs do include a picture of a king or queen. The Queen's Head, for example, shows an image of Queen Victoria.

After doing some research (admittedly very little), I came across a few reasons why pubs were named after a ruler's head. First, and most obvious, would be that the owner wanted to show their loyalty. It is also thought that the name attracted a more conservative clientele. A lot of pubs were renamed The Kings Head after good ol' Henry VIII decided to dissolve the monasteries (we would probably say "destroy" today given the number of monastic ruins I have been through). Many pub names were hastily changed out of fear and a desire to show allegiance. However, there also exists a more humorous theory: in the Navy, a head is a toilet, so renaming a pub The King's Head could have been a more subtle way of showing one's political leanings.

On Day 10, we stayed overnight in The King's Head Inn in the Cotwolds village of Bledington. It was a fairly easy, level walk (even with roller-wheel carry-on luggage) the two miles from our cottage in Kingham to the Inn. However, as we are coming to realize, there exists in the Cotwolds a level of hospitality rarely seen anymore. As we walked, a man pulled his car over and offered us a lift into the village. We declined, but it was exceedingly kind of him. I must admit that I did say to Phil, "That's how you end up chained to a radiator in a shed, and learning why the village is called Bledington." But that's just the way my city-girl humour works, even though I truly did appreciate the kindness of this increasingly rare act.

Historically, inns offered accommodation to those travelling by coach and those travelling long distances with goods or mail. After pulling a Samsonite for two miles, I felt a bit like someone might have who was pulling turnips to market, so was glad of the warm welcome at the pub despite it only being about 11 in the morning.

We wouldn't get our room until about 2 pm, so we decided to do a circular walk that took us to the edge of Icomb and then through the abutting villages of Church Westcote and Nether Westcote. The rain was chasing us for most of this walk, but we managed to make it back to the King's Head just before 2, with still time to have lunch (and in Phil's case, a pint of the local bitter).

Like travellers of old, our room was above the pub. Unlike them, it also contained a Nespresso machine and a deep bathtub with an extensive collection of bath and shower gels made expressly for the Inn. We settled in for a mid-afternoon nap...until the pub started to reopen for the Friday after-work crowd. The music was right below us, and soon we could hear a steady stream of voices entering the pub and ordering a pint or two, and the mumbling sounds of numerous conversations.

Abiding by the age-old adage -- if you can't beat 'em, join 'em -- we went down to enjoy a leisurely dinner, which was lovely.

About midnight, the sounds from the pub diminished, and we were soon fast asleep, like thousands of others before us over the centuries.