The March Hare Inn Broughton Hackett

So, you think you know a good pub? You’ve probably never met the March Hare Inn in Broughton Hackett. Tucked away in a village that sounds like a rejected Harry Potter location, this place is a glorious mess of history and hilarity.

First, the location. Broughton Hackett is so small that if you blink while driving through, you’ll miss it and end up in a field arguing with a sheep. The pub itself sits there like a defiant, old drunk who refuses to get with the times.

The Rabbit of the Problem

Of course, the name “March Hare” isn’t just a nod to Alice in Wonderland. It’s also a cheeky promise of madcap behavior inside. I once saw a local try to pay for his ale with a handful of acorns and a sincere handshake. The barman just sighed, took them, and poured the pint anyway.

Speaking of the barman, his name is probably Dave but he looks like he’s been there since the Norman Conquest. His eyebrows have their own postcode. You don’t order a fancy cocktail here; you nod toward the taps and hope for the best.

The Architecture of Chaos

The building is older than your granny’s secret jam recipe. The floor slants at a solid seven degrees, so your pint glass slowly migrates toward the fireplace. It’s physics, but also a survival game.

The ceiling beams are low enough to scalp a tall giraffe. Hang your head in shame—or just hang your head literally—and you’ll find initials carved into the oak from 1723. Those weren’t vandals; they were probably just checking if the wood was real.

The March Hare Inn, Broughton Hackett © Jeff Gogarty :: Geograph

There’s a rumor that the ghost of a farmer named Old Bertie haunts the gents’ toilet. He only appears if you flush twice and mumble about the weather. Locals swear by this, though I suspect it’s just an excuse to avoid paying for a second round.

Surprisingly Good Food

Now, let’s talk about the grub. You might expect stale crisps and a microwaved pie from a place this wonky. Wrong. The March Hare serves a steak-and-ale pie that makes angels weep with joy.

Their chip butty is a religious experience, mainly because the bread is so thick you can hear God sighing with satisfaction. The chef, a woman named Brenda, once refused to serve chips to a man wearing a tracksuit. She called it “a moral stand.” Fair enough.

Don’t ask for a vegan menu. Brenda will stare at you like you just insulted her mother. The only vegetable option is the pickled egg, which has been floating in that jar since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

The Regulars’ Code

THE MARCH HARE INN, Broughton Hackett - Updated 2025 Restaurant Reviews

If you want to fit in at the March Hare Inn, learn the unspoken rules. First rule: never stand directly in front of the dartboard. Second rule: if a dog named Trevor walks in, you must pet him. He’s the unofficial pub president.

Third rule: if you hear someone yell “Custard!” you must drop whatever you’re doing and stare at the ceiling. Why? No one knows. It’s been tradition since 1974. The last tourist who asked “Why?” was told, “Because the ceiling is shy.”

There’s also a bizarre collection of teapots hanging from the rafters. They say it’s to ward off bad luck. I say it’s because someone lost a bet and now we all have to live with it. The teapots watch you as you drink.

The Punchline

You go to the March Hare Inn for the beer, but you stay for the beautiful nonsense. It’s a place where the fire is always too hot, the bar stool wobbles, and the stories get taller with every pint. It’s the most English thing this side of a soggy biscuit.

Just don’t ask for ketchup with your pie. Brenda will hear you. And she will judge you for eternity. Go on, find it. It’s worth the journey—and the potential head injury.