Heritage is a loaded term. It has a banal, unthreatening, chocolate box meaning - Heritage Centre. English Heritage. Or, in the case of the town I was visiting, the Henley Heritage Trail. It's comfy and it's warm. It's history, but not nasty history; there are no slaves or murders or torturing, and if there's a battle, it's a sufficient distance ago so that the field has been grassed over and you can put up a picture of a Cavalier in a big flouncy hat.
Wootton Wawen has been here for over a thousand years; it's in the Domesday Book. It certainly looks the genuine article, clustered around a sweep in the road, its rooftops wiggling under the weight of heavy chimneys.
"Council's full of Masons." He winked theatrically and returned to the bar to book a table for him and his family, who were coming to visit and who he wanted to entertain in the best bit of the pub. The barmaid politely listened to his long story about the visitors, his cheeky banter, his jokes, as she took his name and number for the reservation. He waved the staff goodbye, and the second he left the barmaid turned to her colleague and said, "I always thought his name was Steve."