My first date with my wife was in the very old White Horse in Longford village 45 years ago
In the late 80s, I was with a group of fifteen oil-company colleagues that overnighted in the Sheraton at Heathrow, on the way back to Calgary, after two weeks in Russia. Collectively we were desperate for something other than vodka to drink, so after checking-in, the plan was to meet in the lobby and go to the hotel bar. The bar didn't look very inviting so I went to the concierge and asked him if there was a decent pub nearby. He enthusiastically recommended the White Horse so we strolled the half-mile down to the pub. It was the evening of Guy Fawkes Day and I distinctly remember the smell of gunpowder in the air and rockets littering the streets.
Several of my colleagues had never been to England before and were stunned to discover that the building was 400 years old! We had a very convivial evening and probably drove out some of the regulars, but I don't think the landlord minded. We drank vast amounts of beer and the smokers amongst us bought the whole of the landlord's cigar stock. I remember a blue-haze overcast between the ceiling beams that was becoming lower and lower as the evening progressed.
