1066 and all that, or a warm, summer's day in Hastings - Pt. One

At the start of 2026, I made an all too brief visit to the historic, seaside town of Hastings, a settlement situated on the sunny south-east coast of Sussex and famed for a battle that took place 960 years ago. The Battle of Hastings took place between the Anglo-Saxon forces of Harold Godwinson, and the French-speaking invaders, of Duke William of Normandy. Both Harold and William had a claim to the English throne following the death of King Edward the Confessor, who died childless, and without naming a successor. This was a bad move on his part, but “shit happens” as they say, and worse still for the Anglo Saxons, William’s Norman forces won the day.

This bloody event took place seven miles inland from the town that gave the battle its name, although a new town grew up close to the site of William’s victory. Battle is not the most imaginative of names, but given the significance of William’s victory, and Harold’s defeat, it is perhaps an appropriate one. The event changed the face and the language of England, certainly for the next 200 years, when Norman French superseded the Anglo-Saxon, Old English of the conquered, native population, but eventually the two tongues merged into what eventually became the English language we know today.

History lesson over, and today, Hastings today is a thriving borough and historic seaside town, dominating this delightful corner of East Sussex. It later became one of the Cinque Ports, a mediaeval trading guild which as well as controlling the local commerce, was also tasked with providing ships, and crews, for the Crown. In the 19^th century, and following the arrival of the railways, the town became a popular seaside resort, as tourists and visitors flocked to the town, to enjoy its many attractions. Hastings remains a popular seaside resort today, but it is also an important fishing port, with the UK's largest beach-based fishing fleet, bringing in the catch.

Over the years, I’ve got to know Hastings reasonably well, but despite this there’s always something more to discover.   It was that relatively short trip, back in early January, that inspired me to make a longer visit, and the chance for that came much sooner than I had anticipated. I'd spotted the Hastings trip advertised on the West Kent CAMRA website and whilst I’m no longer a member of the campaign group, these trips are always kept open for armchair supporters and sympathisers of the organisation.

So, after getting my pass stamped by Mrs PBT's, I headed down to the station in time for the advertised 10:58 train. Whilst a few the party had already boarded the train at Sevenoaks and more would be joining the service at Tunbridge Wells, the majority of the group travelled from Tonbridge, including several people I hadn't seen for some time. 

This was all to the good, but what was wasn't quite so positive, was the differing ideas and aspirations held by various party members as to what the day should entail, especially when it came to which areas of the town we ought to visit. Should we play safe and stick to some favourite, tried and tested pubs or ought we perhaps visit a few untried and unfamiliar hostelries? It was during the train ride down to Hastings that these differing thoughts and opinions came to light, with some members wanting to leave the train at nearby St. Leonards on Sea, whilst others wanting to remain on board to the end of the line and disembark at Hastings.

The dilemma was further compounded by the level of fitness of people in the group, because several party members didn’t seem up the St. Leonards option, which involved a steep uphill slog from Warrior Square station, into the Old Town. So, whilst the majority of the group were in favour of the St. Leonards option, there was a small contingent who, due to various age-related conditions, didn't feel up to the walk. Those individuals remained on the train with an agreement to rendezvous with the rest of us, at the Dolphin in Hastings, Old Town. I class myself as reasonably fit, so I left the train at St. Leonards. Although I’ve driven through the area, that was my first time on foot in the town. The plan was to visit the “landmark pub” called the Tower that was reached after a stiff climb up from the station. One enterprising, but not overly fit member found a bus to transport him up from the station, but I was glad of the chance to stretch my legs after sitting on the train for the best part of an hour.

The Tower is described by CAMRA, as one of the last “true free houses”, although I'm uncertain as to what is meant by that statement. Stepping inside we found a spacious and well laid out room, overlooked by a semicircular bar. There was quite a selection of cask ales on tap, with Fuller’s supplying several of them, but my attention was drawn to a refreshing pint of Southern Summit, a 4.0% American Pale Ale from Loch Lomond Brewery. Clear and bright as nature intended, rather than cloudy murk that resembled a milkshake. Our group spread ourselves between several Britannia style tables, (look it up), with some opting for the rarely seen Gales HSB or Dark Star Hophead. There was a friendly and inclusive feel to the Tower, making it a popular choice for both regulars and new visitors like us.

Departing the Tower, we headed a little deeper into St Leonards to a stop where buses run down into Hastings Old Town. We alighted at the seafront, close to our agreed meeting point of the Dolphin, but the rendezvous was compromised somewhat by a member of the other party suffering from a nosebleed that was refusing to stop. I won't go into detail, apart from revealing that the individual concerned was the oldest member of the group. That aside the Dolphin’s landlady and her staff treated this poor chat with compassion and respect, even though they must have got through yards of blue paper towel, in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. Too much detail I know, but full marks to the staff at the Dolphin even though they eventually had to seek medical assistance and call an ambulance.

Annoyingly, the Dolphin wasn't serving food that day - something about the kitchen franchise changing hands, but the pub did serve up a fine pint of Kent Brewery, Quiet American, a US-style, citrus dominated IPA, which on a baking hot day was the perfect thirst quencher. Harvey’s Best, and Longman Best were the other two cask ales, and there might have been one or two more in the other section of the pub.  The paramedic team arrived just as we were leaving, so most of us left them with the casualty, to sort things out. I was quire sorry to be leaving the Dolphin, as it really is one of the best pubs in Hastings. It was also the only hostelry on this trip that I visited on my previous trip to the town.

It was here that I somehow became separated from the rest of the group. I knew they were heading for one of the multitude of fish and chip shops along the promenade, but which one? In the rush to depart the Dolphin I was aware that I should have emptied my bladder before leaving, but rather than fight my way back up the steps, and through the pub to the Gents, I headed off across the Stade, past the rows of black, tarred, fisherman's huts, to an area overlooking the beach.  This is where some relatively new and well-appointed public toilets are located, something I remembered from my previous visit.  As one gets older, knowing the location of such facilities is a wise move, and these ones overlooking the beach were most welcome, and spotlessly clean as well.

But which chippy had my companions adjourned to? I wandered up and down the Stade without spotting them, so in the end I dived into the nearest chip shop and ordered something to eat. I wasn't overly hungry, a feeling that was probably due to the excessive heat, and a fact confirmed by the chip shop proprietor. He claimed, in answer to my question about trade, that the hot weather wasn't good for business. People seem to eat less, he claimed, and I'm sure he was right, but that didn’t stop me buying a takeaway portion of chips, wrapped in a paper cone, sprinkled with salt and drowned in copious volumes of vinegar. They still slipped down a treat, despite my previous comments.

There was still no sign of my companions, so I dived into the nearby Royal Standard, a quaint old fisherman's pub overlooking seafront, and a place I remembered from past visits to Hastings. The Standard belongs to Shepherd Neame, who own quite a few pubs in the town. The pub had a bright and airy feel to it, especially with both doors open due to the warm weather. There was plenty of people sitting outside too, taking in the sea air and topping up their tans at the same time.

Two cask ales were on sale, one the ubiquitous Whitstable Bay Pale, and the second a beer called Creekside. Described as a juicy IPA, the term “juicy” rang a few alarm bells with me, as it implied craft murk, and all that entails so I'm pleased I stuck with the tried and tested Whitstable Bay. Shortly before leaving I received a WhatsApp message from the rest of the group, saying they'd be in the nearby Jenny Lind at around 3:00pm. I set off for this well-known Hastings pub, but with three pubs under my belt, and three more to go, it’s time to take a break, and describe the remaining three, in the next article.  

 

A farewell to a bygone era, and a welcome to a new one

I’m getting behind with my posts again, although I shan’t bore you with what’s been keeping me from blogging. I’m part way through a write up of last Fridays’ day at the seaside, aka a day out in Hastings with West Kent CAMRA, but with six pubs involved, there’s a fair amount of detail to plod through.

Instead, I want to reflect briefly on the passing at the age of 81, of Humphrey Smith, the owner of Tadcaster-based, Samuel Smith's Old Brewery. A controversial and divisive figure, in many respects, but also someone who steered this staunchly traditional, family business, through the troubled waters of the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries. Those who have been through these times, in my case since the mid 1970’s, will be aware of the many changes that have occurred in the drink’s trade during this period.

Whilst organisations, such as CAMRA, might have welcomed some of these changes, with hindsight the introduction of the 1989 Beer Orders, caused serious damage to the drinks trade. The most damaging aspect of this legislation, however well-intentioned, it might have been, was the removal of the link between pubs and breweries, effectively turning the pub trade on its head. In the minds of many older drinkers, such as me and my contemporaries, the Beer Orders destroyed the pub trade we remember, and replaced it with an increasingly cut-throat, dog-eat-dog race to the bottom.

None of these changes had much effect on Samuel Smith’s, which was established in 1758, in the North Yorkshire town of Tadcaster. It is by far, the smallest of the three breweries based in the town, owning just 200 pubs. It is also an unlimited company, which permits it to maintain financial privacy, as well as allowing the directors to keep a tightly controlled family grip on the business.

Because of its relatively small size Samuel Smiths remained largely unaffected by legislation such as the Beer Orders, but that didn’t mean that when Humphrey took over the business, in the 1980’s, he didn’t bring in any changes. First and foremost, of these, was turning tenants into managers, directly employed by the brewery, a move which enabled the business to dictate the policies it has become well known for.

With regard to these, people tend to remember the more controversial edicts, such as banning television, the use of mobile phones, and also swearing in Samuel Smith pubs, but as the company website states, their outlets remain as "Havens from the digital world", where conversation and interaction with other customers is actively encouraged. Policies that few pub lovers could raise serious objections to (unless one is trying to find the time of that last bus or train home).

What is rather more concerning, is the often-arbitrary way in which quite a few Sam Smith’s pubs have been closed, seemingly on the whim of the brewery’s late owner. An online search will reveal further details, although some sources estimate the number to be just over half of the company’s tied estate of houses. Following Humphrey’s passing, it would be nice to see at least some of these outlets re-opening, especially in locations such as small villages, where communities have been left pub-less.

We shall have to see what happens, but as far as continuation is concerned, the London estate is already being run by Humphrey’s son, Sam. The rules still exist in the capital but apparently are applied far less rigorously. I admit to taking photos in several of Sam’s London pubs, even though I did so discretely, just in case! As others have pointed out, using mobiles for finding out bus and train times, will probably get the OK, but I am in complete agreement that noisy phone conversations, or sharing You Tube videos should remain on the “naughty list” and rightly so.

Commentators, such as Tandleman, whose own excellent review you can read here, have suggested that ad hoc sackings and closures will become a thing of the past, and pubs will be able to attract managers more easily. Furthermore, many of the closed pubs will re-open, and as TM suggests, young Sam will not throw out what makes the company’s pubs different and will definitely be keeping the best bits.

A final, précised piece from York CAMRA,  Humphrey was a man  with many quirks - but we'd do well not to forget that he presided over a family brewery that produces exceptional real ale and craft keg beers at very affordable prices and an estate of pubs that provide a huge social impact within their communities”.

"He leaves his son Samuel both a legacy on which to build but also a huge challenge in reopening many of their pubs that are currently closed and bringing some of their more arcane operational rules back into the 21st Century!"

For my part, I shall continue visiting the company’s London pubs, whenever I am in the capital, and the same applies to other towns and cities where Sam’s have a pub or two. In the meantime, it’s a question of “watch this space.”

Footnote: If I can stretch my memory back far enough, I might include a short piece about how, I lived just five minutes’ walk away from a long vanished, Sam Smith’s pub in the Lower Kersal area of Salford. This was back in my student days, and I’m pretty certain that the Old Brewery Bitter, dispensed from metered, electric pumps, was brewery-conditioned, “bright beer” rather than cask. I shall need to do some backtracking on this, but I believe the pub was called, the Prince of Wales.  

Strange bedfellows, or you never know who you'll meet over dinner

A recent comment, on Retired Martin’s blog, about sitting next to someone on a plane, whose country is at war, reminded me of a polar opposite experience that occurred on our not so recent, cruise to Norway. Martin mentioned about being seated next to a Ukrainian national, whereas my experience involved a person representing the other side in the appalling conflict that is continuing between two former, East European neighbours.

Mrs PBT’s and I were on our way back from Alta, in the far north of  Norway, and it was the second of what turned out to be five days at sea. Our ship was supposed to have called at Narvik, on the return voyage, but due to heavy seas and storm-force winds, our captain had decided to make a dash for home. This sort of made sense from a seafaring point of view, but need to have a strong and stable relationship to be cooped up in a cabin, with your nearest and dearest for the best part of a week.

Fortunately, ours seems to have survived, but on the day in question (see above), I decided to have lunch in the Buckingham Restaurant. This is the posh, formal and slightly upmarket dining room on Ambience, but the good thing is stuffy dress restrictions only apply in the evening, leaving passengers free to dress as they wish (within reason), for both breakfast and lunch.

For some reason Eileen didn’t join me, possibly because the rough seas weren’t agreeing with her, or perhaps not. The exact reason doesn’t matter, but what does is it was getting quite late when I strolled into the restaurant, and seating options seemed restricted. I was asked if I was OK sitting opposite a rather frumpy, and slightly fierce looking woman, so I said yes, without giving much thought to the matter. I didn’t bother with a starter and instead went straight in on the main course. My dinner companion seemed rather reserved and also a little reticent, when it came to chatting, but I eventually managed to break the ice. I had this lady down as German, and a posh Teuton at that, especially as she reminded me of someone who’d participated in a reality TV programme that Mrs PBT’s is quite keen on.

“Four in a Bed” is a series, in which four B&B owners, couples in the main, although not always people in a physical relationship – so mother/father, son/daughter, or business partners, or just friends, compete by staying at each other’s establishments and then score one another on areas such as cleanliness, quality and standard of accommodation plus food. The last question, “Would you stay here again?” is the most telling, and quite often the most controversial, as well. As you can imagine, the luvvy TV producers go out of their way to find couples who are antagonistic, fussy, or living examples of Basil Fawlty and his long-suffering wife, Sybil. It makes for good TV, don’t you know, even though it’s probably a poor example of real-life situations.

One B&B owner who really stood out was, Mrs Tee, a rather eccentric, bossy, and somewhat outspoken German lady, and she was the spitting image of the person sitting opposite me in the Buckingham Restaurant. Imagine my surprise then when, after failing to guess the home country of this quite fierce looking lady, she came clean and confessed that she was Russian. “Is that a problem?” she enquired, “No, of course not”,  was my reply, and the truth is that it wasn’t, especially once the conversation really started to flow. I never discovered her name, but she explained that she had been living in the UK for quite some time, after originally arriving in the country, as someone’s "pen-pal".

I probably missed the pen-pal craze by a few years, but as someone who hated writing letters (don’t forget to write and say “thank-you” for that birthday present to Aunty Margaret, or Uncle Donald), putting pen to paper was the last thing that I ever felt like doing. More to the point, what to say. And were these elderly relatives, I felt compelled to write and thank, overflowing with gratitude upon receiving a badly worded, poorly written and monosyllabic piece of boring, schoolboy waffle?

Going back to my Soviet era dinner companion, who definitely fitted the role of an austere Russian autocrat. She’d obviously been permitted to stay in the UK, where she’d raised at least one child, and possibly more. Unfortunately, having started talking, she obviously found it hard to stop. Despite her verbal diarrhoea, she managed to find room for all four courses on the menu. We ended up being the last couple dining in the restaurant, and whilst I could see that the waiting staff were itching to throw us out, and clear the table, their obvious discomfort went completely over my companion’s head.

A couple more points, before concluding, she’d been allowed to remain in Britain after forming a relationship with a UK citizen. She’d had raised at least one child, and despite its obvious faults, she remained fond of the former USSR and its Bolshevik rulers. She explained how the communist party was determined to bring art and culture to the masses, with heavy subsidies allowing the populace at large to enjoy the delights of the Bolshoi Ballet, the theatre and orchestral concerts, showcasing the best that the Soviet regime had to offer. She felt this was something that the west was unable to offer its citizens.

I didn’t want to argue too fiercely against what she was saying, first because I was onboard that cruise ship to enjoy myself, but also because I felt trapped. I also didn’t wish to appear rude, even though the Mrs Tee, from “Four in a Bed” that I was comparing her against, wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, if I had acted in such a manner. Even so, I heaved an enormous sigh of relief, after my “forced” dinner companion, polished of her final course of cheese and biscuits.

The waiting staff were also relieved to see the back of us, even though they were obviously too polite to say so, and I was also wondering what Eileen might be thinking, even though she’s quite used to me disappearing for long periods of time. Despite a further three days at sea, I never set eyes on this Russian Mrs Tee again, although I did make a point of avoiding the main dining room for the rest of the cruise. However, despite the warmongering stance of the current Russian regime, I still managed to find the experience both fascinating and enlightening. It was proof, if needed, of the old adage of never judging a book by its cover.

Wall to wall sunshine at the Greyhound, for the firm's summer party

The Greyhound at Charcott isn’t the nearest pub to where I work, although it is the second closest. It’s a 10–15-minute stroll away, with a choice of two routes, one of which means keeping one’s wits about oneself due to the way drivers treat a country lane, as a racetrack. That road is known as Camp Hill, and I imagine here that the name refers to a former gypsy encampment, rather than the former grass-track airfield that occupied the flatland between the B 2027 and Camp Hill. Known both before and during the Second World War, as Penshurst Airfield, this rather primitive facility closed a year after the cessation of hostilities, and today its use alternates between arable purposes and sheep grazing.

With the Greyhound a short stroll away from my workplace, and close to the route of my regular lunchtime walks, it’s surprising that I don’t pop in that regularly. Tempting though it is, the reason I don’t often call in, is simply because I find it hard to stay awake, during the afternoon and even a single pint could see me dozing off in front of my computer screen. Wednesday was different though, as the Greyhound was the host venue for the company’s Summer Party. Despite holding an annual Christmas bash, yesterday’s event was the first summer get-together that the firm has arranged during the 20 years I have been employed there.

Apart from a small number of employees, who didn’t wish to attend, the majority of the workforce headed up to the Greyhound at 2pm. I’d caught the train in that morning, as whilst I wasn’t intending to have skinful, I still wanted the chance to enjoy a few pints that afternoon. To say it was hot walking up to the pub, would be an understatement on what has since proved to be the hottest June day on record. (I believe that today, was actually hotter!) Some keen members of staff were already there, having either driven up, or bunked off work early. We’d all been handed a couple of drinks tokens each, although for those not driving like me, or not wishing to return to work after (virtually no-one), the opportunity was there, to buy as many additional drinks as they wished. I ended up with an extra token, given to me by a non-drinking colleague, as did several others.

In view of the warm weather, the Greyhound had laid out an extensive buffet selection of finger food, inside the left-hand part of the pub, although given the glorious summer weather, and the pleasant shady (in parts) garden, virtually all of us chose to take our plates of food outside. As well as our party of 40+ persons, the pub had its own individual customers turning up, both regular and causal. It all made for an excellent and ultra-relaxed afternoon, and from many people’s point of view it provided the perfect opportunity to mingle with people from other departments and different areas of the factory.

Beer wise, there was a choice of three cask ales, with two from local brewer, Larkin’s, plus Best Bitter from Sussex-based, Three Acre Brewery. There was also a hand-pump dispensed, cask cider from Charrington’s (weren’t they once a brewer?). I enjoyed a cool, and well-kept pint of the rarely seen, Larkin’s Pale, plus one of Three Acre Best. For my final pint, I opted for a chilled pint of Hofmeister which, like the other beers, slipped down a treat.

By 4pm, people were slowly starting to slip off, so after reviewing the train times, I decided to beat a retreat of my own. I allowed plenty of time for the walk across the former airfield, and grateful to the cooling breezes that sprung up from time to time. I was grateful also that the train arrived on time, and that the air-conditioning was running. I then had a hot wait for a bus home, as there was no way that I wanted to walk back uphill to Bailey Towers.

So, all in all, an enjoyable and from the company’s point of view, a successful event. There’s not much in the way of photos, as not only have I lost the habit of snapping away wildly with my phone, but I wasn’t sure how my various colleagues would feel at having their visages slapped across my blog. If you want to know more about the smashing little country pub, that is the Greyhound, here are a few links to some previous articles I have written about the place.

Good things to come

Pub visits have been somewhat curtailed over the past week, for a variety of reasons, most of which have been family related. There’s also been quite a lot of boring, DIY – home improvement projects going on, nothing major, but still time-consuming and not the stuff that people will necessarily want to read about. On the plus side though, there are a number of out of town* events on the horizon, so there is plenty to look forward to. *Out of Tonbridge.

This coming Tuesday, Mrs PBT’s has bought tickets for us to attend a presentation, at the Assembly Hall, Tunbridge Wells. The event relates to the Channel 4 series - the Great Pottery Throwdown, and is hosted by the show’s presenter, Keith Brymer Jones, aided and abetted by his partner Marj Hogarth. Keith is an experienced potter and ceramic designer whilst Marj is an actor and artistic designer. Eileen’s been an avid follower of this series, which is about pottery and all things ceramic. Keith and Marj’s latest, and most ambitious project, is the restoration of Capel Salem, a Grade II listed 19th-century chapel in North Wales. I haven’t watched all of the series, but the project certainly seems a mammoth endeavour, and the presentation itself promises to be an interesting one.

The following afternoon-evening, the company I work for will be holding its Summer Party. The event is a first for the firm, and follows on from a failed attempt last year, that had to be cancelled due to inclement weather. This time around, the event is being hosted by the Greyhound at Charcot, an award-winning pub, approximately 15 minutes’ walk from the factory.  Despite the pub’s proximity to the factory, it’s been quite some time since I last set foot in the place. This is because I tend to give lunchtime pub sessions during working hours, a miss these days, not because the company frowns upon the practice, but more for the fact that I feel sleepy enough as it is – without the soporific effect of a couple of pints of beer (or even one). I’m therefore looking forward to seeing how the Greyhound is doing. these days.

In three weeks’, time the British Guild of Beer Writers, will be holding its annual summer get-together, an event that historically took place the night before the opening of CAMRA’S Great British Beer Festival. Sadly, the Campaign’s flagship event has bitten the dust, for reasons I’m sure most of us are familiar with, but the Guild’s party promises to be an interesting one. It’s an easy “do” for me to get to, being hosted by Bermondsey brewer, Ansbach & Hobday at their Arch House Taproom, in Druid Street, close to London Bridge station. I’m therefore looking forward to catching up with those BGBW members whom I still know, and to sampling some interesting beers.

The following week, I’ve a lunchtime appointment with an old friend from Maidstone. Neither of us live in the county town any more, and my pal John now lives in East Kent, close to the town of Hythe. We shall be rendezvousing at the Red Lion, in the large village of Lenham, which lies between Maidstone and Ashford, so the pub is sort of halfway. 

John has a collection of vintage military vehicles, and in recent years has been quite heavily involved in publishing. Now after publishing a murder-mystery, plus a 3-volume series on the history of nearby (to where he lives), Lympne Airfield, John has turned his pen to matters closer to home, with a book detailing his uncle’s experiences as a prisoner of the Japanese, during WWII, where he was forced to work on the construction of the infamous Burma Railway – Bridge Over the River Kwai, and all that.

John’s relation survived, otherwise there’d be no tale to tell, but Uncle Jack had the unfortunate ordeal of being onboard a Japanese cargo vessel, that was torpedoed and sunk by an American submarine, in the South China Sea. “Rescued” by another Japanese ship, Jack and his fellow survivors spent the rest of the war, working for their captors in the docks of the port city of Sakata, in northern Honshu.

Finally, the first Friday in July*, should see me joining members from West Kent CAMRA on a day out, at the seaside, in Hastings. I visited this perennial south-east coast resort, at the start of the year, so it will be interesting to see the difference in the town, at the peak of the summer season. I haven’t a clue as to which pubs we’ll be visiting, but I’m content to go with the flow and see where we end up. We’ll be travelling by train, of course, so there’s always the opportunity to stop off somewhere on the way home. That’s probably not the wisest of suggestions, but you never know, as with a belly full of beer, a little bit of spontaneity often seems like a good idea.

*Date corrected, and post amended, thanks to a sharp-eyed reader!

 

Rusthall - rocky crags, hidden valleys, plus a couple of decent pubs

Well, it’s good to be back in harness once more, if that’s the right word, but the issues I had in trying to access my Blogger account, were enough to try the patience of a saint. In the end, the problem boiled down to a conflict between my username and my chosen password, where just one digit was incorrect. I’d spotted it, but wasn’t sure how to rectify the problem, and when, after numerous attempts, I eventually managed it, I realised the issue dated back to when I registered my latest Samsung phone – two and a half years ago.

I won’t bore you with the details, but when several devices are inter-linked (Smart Phone, laptop + desktop), it only takes a minor error with one of them, before several others end up being locked out. A cool head, plus, an unwavering conviction that I’d solve the problem paid off in the in the end, but with the whole process being a staggering waste of time, I’m glad that particular nightmare is over now, and I can get on with some more enjoyable, and important things, such as writing this blog.

The first thing to write about is the visit I made, last Sunday, to Rusthall, a large village located approximately two miles to the west of Tunbridge Wells. Hidden among the trees and surrounded by rocky sandstone outcrops, Rusthall is a village with two centres. One centre developed in the 1800s as a summer retreat, around a particularly large and distinctive lump of sandstone, known as the Toad Rock. The other is Lower Green, which is the oldest part Rusthall, dating back to the 8^th century.

Despite its proximity to Tunbridge Wells, Rusthall possesses a feel that seems almost “other worldly”, a sensation that I’d almost forgotten about because whilst I visited Lower Green, towards the start of last year, it must be a decade or more since I visited the “resort” area of the village. On that occasion Mrs PBT’s and I attended a family function at the Toad Rock Retreat, which was the second of the two pubs visited last weekend, (see below).

My journey over to Rusthall was made using the Arriva 281 bus which, even on Sunday, operates a half-hourly service, between the village and High Brooms station. As we arrived in Rusthall, the bus dropped me in the High Street, where I noted a pub that I hadn’t seen before, let alone been in.  The Oak Inn appears to have morphed, from a traditional town pub into a cross between a bar and a Chinese takeaway, although according to the CAMRA website, the place is still awaiting a full survey. The Campaign’s “Gateway to Kent Pub Guide,” published 2009, describes the place as “A comfortably furnished, open plan, locals pub”, but times obviously change, so let’s look at Rusthall’s two surviving village pubs instead.

First up is the Red Lion, a former Shepherd Neame and Grade II listed building that can trace its history back to 1415. The pub has served the local community since the days when Lower Green was regarded as a hamlet in its own right, but despite such claims the Red Lion isn’t actually that far from the main A264 road, even when one is on foot. Today, the pub is known for its live music events, and for the quality of its Asian food, with the claim of offering the Best Thai Food in Tunbridge Wells.

I last called in at the Red Lion 18 months’ ago, on a rather chilly January day, which was in complete contrast to Sunday’s visit. Given the fine weather, many customers had chosen to sit outside, which left plenty of space inside. I couldn’t help noticing that the cask range had been slimmed down from two Harvey’s beers, to just the one, which of course was the company’s Best Bitter. Harvey’s Old probably wouldn’t have been the best choice for a summer offering, but I did find the brewery’s Pell’s Pale on sale at the next pub, which was the aforementioned Toad Rock Retreat.

This particular pub took a bit of finding, although those approaching it from the Tunbridge Wells-East Grinstead road, will find things a lot easier. The retreat is best reached by following Harmony Street down off the Rusthall Road, just past the famous Toad Rock formation which gives the pub its name. The pub was seriously damaged by a fire, a dozen or more years ago, and despite being extensively restored, still has that “just built” feel about it.

As mentioned previously, I last visited the Toad Rock Retreat, when it hosted a family engagement party, held for Eileen’s eldest niece, and whilst that particular relationship has since fizzled out, we all enjoyed a good night at this landmark pub. Walking back from the pub, and passed the famous sandstone formations, brought back memories of the time I took a young Matthew Bailey for a spot of low-level rock scrambling.  I mentioned this to him, earlier today, when we enjoyed a father and son cooked breakfast, at a local “greasy spoon” establishment, at the rear of Tonbridge station. His memories of the car we had at the time, are more vivid than the rocks themselves, but at least he remembers our little rock-clambering expedition.

Being a hot day, I sat outside on the sunken terrace, between the raised car park and the pub itself. The Harvey's Pell's Pale was on good form and this light and refreshing, pale ale was just the thing for the time of year, and the unusual location. So, if you've had your fill of rock scrambling, as well as exploring this tucked away settlement, that’s within a stone’s throw of Tunbridge Wells, why not round off your visit by calling in at either of these pubs or, perhaps try both of them. They are quite different pubs from one another, but both are places where you can relax in, and enjoy a refreshing pint or three of fine, locally-brewed, ale.