Jackie Ryder, who is, I gather, something of an expert, recommended the Cuckoo Inn, lying near the far end of Lyburn Road, as the perfect country pub. We therefore decided to try it out today. Before arriving at Nomansland, we took a trip to Burley Street to have a look at a house. 
The owner kindly invited me into the back garden to photograph what she said was the best view. It just happened that she was outside with the estate agent as I wandered down the gravel lane.
You never know, we may need to be looking elsewhere than at our few favourite possible abodes.
The barman at the Cuckoo Inn told us it was an alcohol based pub, which meant they weren’t serving food other than Wiltshire pasties, but a chippy visited on Friday nights. 
The pub was attractive, with its multiple small, snug, rooms. It served a range of beers and ciders. The barman, who recommended The King’s Head at Redlynch for the meal we were seeking, was very open and friendly. He confirmed what we had read on website reviews, that they were seeking renegotiation of the lease from ‘the estate’. The reviewer had, last November regretted the death of the previous landlord. Jackie found the strong lingering scent of last night’s beer more attractive than I did. We had determined to make lunch our main meal of the day, so didn’t stay, but went on to Redlynch. On our return, the sun had put in an appearance and there was a troop of cyclists drinking in the garden. All this made the establishment, originally virtually empty, look more inviting. We passed a number of posters informing us that the famous Cuckoo Inn was to host a forthcoming beer festival.
The Kings Head was very well cared for; large, clean, and very friendly, with carefully tended hanging baskets and window boxes. 
The food was fairly standard pub fare, reasonably cooked. I had the pie of the day, being chicken, ham, and mushroom. The herbs, which were the dominant taste, were not mentioned on the board. It, and the accompanying vegetables, were perfectly well cooked. Jackie’s choice was macaroni cheese, which she enjoyed, as she did her small creme brûlée that followed. Only one other couple was dining when we arrived. Our main course took three quarters of an hour, and Jackie’s sweet, fifteen minutes, to reach our table.
The same diminutive elderly gentleman delivered small barrels of beer, two at a time, stacked on his sack barrow, from his open-sided van, to each of these hostelries. He could just about see over the top of what he was pushing. He certainly seemed fit enough for the task.
Jackie chose our table because it was near a door kept open by a doorstop, and she sought the breeze. A couple with two young children entered. The woman bent down, removed the doorstop, ordered at the bar, and, closing the door behind her, led the family into the garden where they settled down at a picnic table. After a decent interval the barmaid reopened the door, and replaced its stopper. Some time later, the woman and child came back into the bar. After placing another order they left for the garden again. The little girl said: ‘You haven’t closed the door’. This led us to speculate about who actually made the decisions in this, probably grandparent, relationship.
Jackie drove us East, directly across the forest from The Lamb Inn. On this brief trip the pleasant lanes were frequented by pigs, cattle, ponies, and donkeys. The snuffling and gobbling pigs do make a row in comparison with the other silent herbivores. Beyond Newbridge, we discovered a road running under the M27, which could be useful access for anywhere north of it. We were stopped at temporary traffic lights because men were working on underside of the bridge. This struck me as a rather ear-shattering occupation.
A crisp salad with firm, delicious Huntsman’s Pie from Ferndene Farm Shop sufficed for our evening repast.