The Royal Oak, Okehampton Street (Exe Bridges)

Visited 25th November 2012, for a late lunch.

We stumbled into the Royal Oak late one Sunday afternoon after strolling along the swollen river and curiously photographing rising water levels. With our first stop, The Mill on the Exe, being four feet under water and therefore closed, we began looking for an alternative carvery. Obviously wanting to shun the Wetherspoons around the corner and being in unknown territory, we were enticed by the Royal Oak sign promising 'Good, home-cooked food'.

The Mill on the Exe beer garden (AKA The Mill Under the Exe)

After enquiring at the bar, we were informed that they only had two pork roasts left. Of course, we had no need for one of those servings, so declared that we would like one animal-free meal, and only one of their two servings of murdered swine. “Fine, no problem at all” they said, so we thankfully ordered our drinks and sat down in the warm.

The Royal Oak

At this point, I started to learn my lesson about being forthright and strict about my nutritional choices. I already felt well out of my comfort zone due to my kerr-azy request for a carvery with no carve, when the barman sheepishly (or should that be piggily?) approached to update us on our meal. Apparently the last two dishes had already been plated up, with slices of tortured porcine allocated to both. Now, bear in mind we had just walked a marathon in the pissing rain, and it was edging towards 3.30 in the afternoon. He posed the inevitable question “Is it OK if we just put the pork on your partner's plate?” and my heart sank. But at least he asked, which I suppose is more than most places would do.

My brain had a panic attack so my stomach took over responsibility for the decision-making. I have no knowledge of pork so considered it to be dry, just like chicken and turkey; the only meats I remember eating as a child. I conceded and agreed that would be OK to simply remove the pork. I could eat around the contaminated section and enjoy my much anticipated potatoes. After all, if I had said no then what sort of food snob would I look like?

Our food arrived, delivered by a nervous and very young lady who apologetically laid it on the table and scarpered. Two pork roasts, on two separate plates, drenched in gravy.

I took a large mouthful of cider as the other half tried to remove my pork. But as I saw the meat juices running down and mingling with gravy and roasties, the prospect of another hungry walk home and potato waffles for dinner started to dawn on me. On the bright side, my broccoli survived the apocalypse and I took an eager bite. It took a millisecond to realise the gravy that engulfed every component of my meal was also meat-based. In the excitement of finding food I had forgotten to ask. The cider was quickly downed to anaesthetise my tear ducts.

So let's break this down, and forget the pig-induced nightmare. Aside from that, the vegetables were so overcooked they dissolved upon impact with a fork, the potatoes were cold, and the meal was inexplicably conjoined with a serving of lumpy mash. My 'meatless' version was charged at the same price as a full carvery, and despite neither of us making a dent in this monstrosity we were charged £18 including drinks for the experience, made worthwhile only by a conversation overheard at the bar. Brace yourselves.

“Course you know why we've 'ad all this trouble with flooding down 'ere don't ya? It's all those flood defences they been building up north, pushing all the water down 'ere. It's gotta go somewhere ain't it?”

Well if that's the case then France is fucked and the droughts in Africa should soon be a thing of the past.

Dinner at home was indeed a whole box of potato waffles smothered in veggie gravy and mint sauce. And very lovely it was too.