A Norwegian saga

Mrs PBT’s and I arrived back in the UK at around 11pm, last night, when our ship docked at Tilbury, or should I say the slightly pretentious London Cruise Terminal. I’m actually being rather unfair to Tilbury, because as departure and arrival places go, the LCT was a very smooth operation. This location in Essex hardly constitutes a town, although we did notice the presence of Tilbury Town rail station on our drive back toward the Dartford Crossing earlier this morning.

Our departure from this slightly maligned location brought back a few memories from childhood, that harked back to my one and only previous visit to childhood, which predate the opening of the first Dartford Tunnel. The Gravesend-Tilbury ferry was the only option for drivers wishing to cross the Thames, downstream of London, and I can remember the excitement of driving down the ramp, in the family car, and onto the limited capacity car ferry at Gravesend, before leaving the vessel at Tilbury, on the opposite side of the river. That was on a trip to Suffolk, to visit my recently retired paternal grandparents, and as it represents my only memory of crossing the river, in this manner, I imagine the Dartford Tunnel must have opened to traffic soon afterwards.

Before going any further, an apology to both regular followers and casual readers of the blog, for the lack of any posts whilst away. I obviously failed the digital-nomad test, as for some reason, best known to Google, I was unable to access my Blogger account whilst away. This was probably a blessing in disguise, as even attempting to type out meaningful text, on the small screen of a Smartphone, has never been a task I’m particularly fond of. Instead, I took copious notes, detailing not just the locations we visited on the cruise, but all sorts of observations about Ambience, the ship that acted as our home for the past 16 days.

Spoiler alert- due to atrocious weather conditions in the Norwegian Sea, the final five days of the voyage were all spent at sea, after being unable to berth at Narvik, which was the final destination of our cruise. Instead, our captain took the decision to “run for home” which meant being tossed and turned by the heavy seas, and strong winds we encountered on our journey back to blighty.  

 The choppy seas led to the evacuation, by helicopter, of at least one injured passenger, and possibly more, following an incident in the ship’s restaurant. Eileen and I remained in our quarters that evening and ordered a meal from the “room service” option, although we heard, and witnessed at least one helicopter hovering above our cabin, on Deck 10. The chopper was rather too close for comfort, as it hovered just feet above our heads, but despite atrocious conditions the casualty was winched to safety and flown away for further treatment. Speculation on board was that Lerwick, in the Shetland Isles, would have been the nearest suitable hospital, but like many things on board ship, this is only speculation.

Leaving bad weather and disasters at sea to one side for a moment, here’s a brief synopsis of places visited, along with alterations to the schedule.  We discovered after booking our trip back in December that the itinerary formerly included a visit to the aforementioned Lerwick, on the outward journey, although this was eventually cancelled. I’m not sure why, and I for one would have liked a visit to Shetland, but removing the latter from the schedule meant a three-day sailing to our first port of call, the lovely town of Ǻlesund.

This was followed the day after, with a visit to Åndalsnes, a tiny town, at the end of a lengthy fjord,and starting point for the Rauma Railway. The latter has been voted "Europe's most scenic train journey", as it follows the line of the Rauma Valley, up into the mountains. An overnight sailing took us to Trondheim, the third most populous municipality in Norway, and a city with a number of cultural treasures. A “sea day” took us to Tromsø, a city known as the "Gateway to the Arctic", and a place with a real buzz about it.

Our ship spent two days in Tromsø, and whilst the second day was marred by rain, there were a number of bars that proved well worth visiting. Our penultimate stop was the small, and very modern-looking town of Alta, where we spent a couple of days, Situated on Norway’s northern coast, at the head of Alta Fjord, the town is renowned as one of the best places to observe the Northern Lights. 

True to the town’s reputation we were rewarded with sightings of the, at times, elusive Aurora Borealis. We set sail on the evening of 21^st March, bound for Narvik, a town on the Norwegian coast, and best known as the port where iron ore, mined in nearby Sweden, is shipped across the world, after being transported across the border, by rail. Unfortunately, we never got to see the town, as it was whilst sailing to Narvik that our captain made the decision to head for home instead.

The above, is just a brief synopsis of our Norwegian adventure, an experience that took us beyond the Arctic Circle and to the northernmost edge of continental Europe. I shall be elaborating much further over the next week or so, as I attempt to play catch-up on what was an amazing and unmissable experience. In other words, there’s plenty more to come!

 

Getting away from it all

There’s just two days left at work until Mrs PBT’s and I set sail on our spring cruise to Norway, and with my case almost packed, I’ve been scratching around catching up on one or two outstanding jobs around the house. I shan’t bother you with the details, apart from saying the fast-draining, super-grip shower mat that I ordered online is proving to be most satisfactory. (I told you it was boring.) I took a short walk around the block afterwards, it was actually several blocks, but despite the dull conditions overhead, the chill in the air, and the threat of rain, it was good to get out of the house, even though it was only for an hour or so.

I headed down towards the former Somerhill pub, where work seems to be progressing nicely, although with the building hidden behind the ubiquitous Heras Fencing, and the windows still “white-washed” out, it was difficult to see what is going on inside. The exterior is looking good, although I’m not over-keen on the bright green paint used to mask the 1950’s roughcast finish. I’m banking on the pub being finished and perhaps even open by the time we return from our Norwegian adventure.

The thought of calling in for a pint at one of the remaining local pubs crossed my mind, but as I’ve already visited every pub within a 20-minute radius (on foot), of Bailey Towers, there weren’t any that I fancied revisiting. (Like last year, I’m aiming to call at as many different hostelries as possible, and duplicating visits at this early stage of the game, has a disrupting effect on my strategy).

Instead, I returned home and finished off the last of the packing. For once we’re ahead of the game, and I’m including Mrs PBT’s here, as well. She’s also slimmed down on the number of bags and cases she’s taking – still too many in my view, but two medium sized cases, plus a couple of bags, is a major improvement on previous cruises. I’m taking one large, hard-shell case that I bought on promotion at Tesco, prior to Christmas, plus a medium sized rucksack.

The case contains a few items of Eileen’s, but I’m rather pleased with my packing, especially as I managed to squeeze in the hiking boots, mentioned in the previous past.  It also contains my “whistle” – Cockney rhyming slang, don’t you know! I’m not a fan of dressing for dinner, or dressing for anything, for that matter, but I’ve been cajoled into it by the lady of the house.

There’s just one day left at work now, and I’ve managed to clear my in-tray, as well as my desk, but it does lead on to the question of how long do I wish to continue in the world of nine to five? In six weeks’, time, I shall reach the grand old age of 71, and in five months’ time I will have completed 20 years’ service with the company. This is by far and away the longest stretch I have spent with any organisation, and when that magic two decades is reached, I shall be inline for a long service bonus. Not a life-changing amount, but still a nice little sum, so it’s going to be autumn before I make any decision, regardless of which way I decide to turn.

I’ve still got mixed feelings here, as turning up to work, even for just three days a week, gets me out of the house and allows me to spend time with colleagues who are, on the whole, intelligent and interesting people. I also strongly feel I am making a real difference to the company, not just on the Health & Safety front – which is my main remit, but also to the project work I have been involved with. It also gets me out of the house, which is another big plus point. Mrs PBT’s is very much a home-loving girl, and whilst there’s nothing wrong with that, to a point, I am very much someone who likes to get out and explore, especially when there’s a decent pub or two involved.

Well, time to finish up and get ready for bed. We’ve got a mid-morning departure for our drive to Tilbury, where the rather grandiose-sounding London Cruise Terminal is situated. Any posting I do will be made via my phone, as I experienced some real difficulties on the last two occasions trying to connect my laptop to the internet. Wherever possible, I will attempt to steer the subject matter back to the main topics of the blog, which are beer, and travel, but for the time-being ta ra for now.

In search of Ambience, beyond the Arctic Circle

In this fast moving, ever changing and increasingly manic world it’s sometimes hard to remain grounded and focus on the things that really matter in life.  I write these words whilst just four days away from setting sail on another cruise and providing I can steer my Tele-addict wife away from the likes of Sky News, our voyage should be a welcome escape from the madness that’s occurring in the world at large.

You see that after nine voyages on Cunard – all “Queen” ships, we’ve decided to cut loose and try something completely different. In doing so, we’ve moved away from Carnival’s flagship brand – thereby saving ourselves a tidy packet. Only time and experience will tell whether we’ve made the right decision, as we’ve booked a 16-night voyage on Ambience, one of three cruise ships operated by Ambassador, Britain’s newest cruise line.

Ambassador sail from seven regional UK ports to a wide variety of different destinations, and the company prides itself by offering affordable quality at a price that offers some of the best value on the high seas. They claim to offer excellent service coupled with outstanding cuisine and all served with the warmest of welcomes. According to the company’s promotional literature, “you’ll get a decent cuppa, as well as a traditional afternoon tea, coupled with some great entertainment - all at an affordable price.” What is it about the Brits and their cups of tea?

The regional port that we’re sailing from is Tilbury, just 45 minutes’ drive from Bailey Towers, via the M25 and the Dartford Crossing. Our destination is Norway, and nowhere else, and our cruise will see us sailing right up the coast of the country, visiting various towns and cities on the way. These settlements include Alesund, Trondheim, Tromso, and Narvik. After crossing the Arctic Circle, we’ll have an overnight stop at Alta, a settlement close to the northern tip of Norway, and uncomfortably close to the Russian Federation.

We can expect some spectacular scenery, and if we’re lucky a glimpse of the Northern Lights, or the aurora borealis, but as long as the accommodation is of a high standard, and the food equally good, we don’t really mind. Ambience, which is a refurbished former P&O Australia ship looks well presented, and with just 1,400 passengers, is considerably smaller than the Cunard vessels we’ve become used to. After running into IT issues on our last cruise, I’ve decided against taking a laptop, although I shall be taking a notebook. This does mean that postings, whilst away, will be few and far between. 

From a personal point of view, it will just be nice to escape from all the bad stuff that’s going on in the world at the moment. I shall be taking a nice thick book as well as a pair of binoculars. As for clothing, temperatures are likely to be just above freezing during the day, and slightly below that figure after sunset. I’ve got a thermally lined coat, that is still unworn, but with a high TOG rating it should be warm enough to wear whilst ashore. I will also be taking my Meindl hiking boots which, when worn with a pair of thermal socks, should be sufficient to keep my feet warm, as well as providing sufficient grip on potentially slippery surfaces.

This forthcoming cruise is not our first visit to Norway and its famous fjords, because in June 2022, Eileen and I took a cruise to the aforementioned fjords. That voyage was made onboard Cunard Queen Mary 2 and included two visits to Hamburg – one on the outward sailing, and the other on the return journey. The reasoning behind this was one of simple economics, because by making two calls to Hamburg, was to pick up and then drop off parties of rich German passengers eager to combine a visit to the fjords with a trans-Atlantic crossing to New York.

On that voyage, Alesund was the most northerly settlement that we called at, whereas on the forthcoming one, this attractive Norwegian town will be the most southerly port. So, apart from Alesund, all other anchorages on this cruise will be new destinations as far as Mrs PBT’s and I are concerned. And this is where we must say farewell to Norway for the time being, apart from revealing that the photos used to illustrate this post, date from that 2022 cruise to Norway.

 

Random pub conversations at the Punch

Just a short post regarding an experience I had earlier in a local pub. The hostelry in question was the Punch & Judy, in Tonbridge, a back-street local, with a Tardis-like interior, looking across the rear of the town’s police station. It’s a pub that has seen several changes of name, and when I first moved to Tonbridge, it was known as the Gardener’s Arms.  Despite these changes, the pub’s current name appears to have stuck, even though it is usually abbreviated to the Punch, or sometimes, just the PJ.

Despite its proximity to the police station, or perhaps because of it, the Punch is very much a locals’ pub although it is none the worse for that. I called in, earlier today, for a swift pint, having just missed a bus back up to the top area of town. This part of Tonbridge is less than 5 minutes’ walk away from Bailey Towers, although the bus ride back from the own does save a lengthy uphill walk.

Back at the Punch, I ordered a pint of Harvey’s Best, a beer that is usually the go-to beer, not just in Tonbridge but across large swathes of the south-east. The beer was cool, foamy and in tip-top condition. Looking around there were just two other people in the pub; one was the landlady who had just served me, whilst the other was a middle-aged man who was probably a few years younger than me. There was sport of some description on the TV, although no-one was taking any notice of it.

The conversation was a little stilted, until the arrival of a group of official-looking fellas at the entrance to the car park at the rear of the police station. The damaged, brick wall across the road wasn’t hard to miss, and seeing the group of hi-vis, clad gents, the landlady marched out of the pub, and across to the group. They turned out to be insurance assessors, as confirmed to me and the other customer, and from what our hostess reported back, the wall had been struck by a bomb-disposal truck. No-one seemed sure of the connection or the relevance, although it appeared this wasn’t the first time the perimeter wall had been struck by a careless driver.

Excitement over, the conversation turned to beer glasses, because the other customer had called in at the pub, to pick up a box of superfluous glasses. I wasn't sure why this person wanted them, or what he was going to do with them. (Reading between the lines, the glasses were destined for a social club, of some description.) The landlady told the customer that the glasses were ale glasses, rather than lager ones. “What’s the difference?”  inquired the customer. “The lager ones are etched at the bottom, to maintain the head”, was the reply.

The customer was somewhat miffed, so I waded in about the “nucleation point”, stealing the hostess’s thunder somewhat, before she explained further about the etched, interior, at the bottom of the glass.  She referred to this part of the glass as a “widget”, which confused the customer even further, so with my scientist’s hat on, I explained that the laser etched mark on the inside bottom of the glass, acts as a nucleation point, that assists the release of the beer's carbonation, creating a steady stream of bubbles and maintaining a head on the beer. The customer still didn’t seem to get it, although the landlady agreed with my explanation. She explained that largely due to the action of the glass rinser behind the bar, the laser etched marks gradually wear out over time. The customer was informed that such “worn” glasses would still be fine for bitter, although not for lager.

It was time for me to leave and catch my bus, but these random encounters and equally random conversations, are what make pub life so refreshing and enjoyable. Now, should anyone ask you about “nucleation points” you will know they are referring to pouring a perfect pint of lager, rather than the all-out war the orange-idiot in the White House seems determined to provoke.

 

 

The Honest Miller, Brook

This article is the one I mentioned in the last post and is the one that has remained unpublished for almost as long as I have been writing this blog. It remains unfinished, for reasons that will become apparent towards the end of this piece, and it continues as an article that I would like to put to bed, sooner, rather than later.

The small village of Brook nestles at the foot of the North Downs, to the east of Ashford, overlooking the gap made through these hills by the river Stour. I spent my teenage years in the village, and it still retains particularly fond memories for me. Brook's main claim to fame is its unspoilt Norman church, which is also home to some remarkable medieval wall paintings. These had been discovered early in the last century after having been hidden by the Puritans, behind layers of whitewash, during the 17th Century. Attractive and historic the church plus its paintings may have been, but apart from the former family home, the place which holds the fondest memories for me is the village pub.

Brook is served by a single pub called the Honest Miller; a handsome, typically white-painted Kentish building with a weather boarded upper half, topped with a peg-tiled roof. It dates back to the reign of Queen Anne, although exactly when it became an alehouse is uncertain. Up until the late 1960's it served ales brewed at the Mackeson's Brewery in Hythe, but when I first started drinking there the beer was brewed by Whitbread Fremlin’s, initially at Maidstone, and latterly at Faversham.

I was fourteen when my family moved to the village. Neither of my parents were pub-goers, and besides money was somewhat tight. It therefore fell to my grandparents, on one of their trips down from London, to take me for my first visit to the Honest Miller. It was perfectly legitimate for both me and my sister to enter the pub as, despite its relatively small size, it possessed a children's room. I can still remember sitting in there, as a family, enjoying a drink and finding my attention being drawn to a strange-looking device sited in a corner, just below the ceiling. It turned out to be an early warning alarm, designed to give a four-minute warning of impending nuclear attack.

Fortunately, this device was never put to the test, although I wonder if it would have worked, and what use such a short warning period would have been, anyway. By the time I was old enough to drink (or to pass myself off as old enough to do so!), the children's room had been knocked through into the adjacent saloon bar. Even though the removal of the dividing wall had virtually doubled it in size, the saloon was everything a saloon bar should be - warm, cosy, comfortable, low-lit and intimate. It was also popular, particularly in term time, with students from the nearby Wye Agricultural College.

If the saloon bar was traditional, the public bar was doubly so. It had white-painted, rough-plastered walls, a low, plastered ceiling and a patterned floor of red and black quarry tiles, worn smooth over the years, and faded by the passage of time. The public bar attracted its own loyal band of regulars, who were always willing to take on all-comers at either darts or cribbage. In common with the saloon, it was heated by an open coal fire during the winter months, whilst during the summer, its thick walls ensured that it stayed cool, even during the hottest weather.

Although the saloon bar had a proper bar counter, the public bar just had a small serving hatch, set into a two-foot-thick wall. The serving area was situated behind this wall; the beer being dispensed straight from casks kept on a substantial wooden stillage. The latter was branded with the words “Mackeson & Co. - Hythe Ales”. From what I recall, the casks were 18-gallon kilderkins rather than the more common 9-gallon firkins that one normally sees today. The fact the casks were this size was an indication of the amount of draught beer the pub sold. It obviously had a reputation for the quality of its beer so imagine the look of horror on the landlord's face when, as a somewhat naive, and wet behind the ears seventeen-year-old, I asked for a pint of Whitbread Tankard.

I had asked for this heavily advertised brew  out of ignorance; an ignorance born of the fact that I knew virtually nothing about beer and hadn't a clue what was in the anonymous looking barrels stillaged behind the bar. To a man who prided himself on the quality of the cask ale that he kept, such a request must have been a personal affront to his dignity. "Are you certain you're eighteen?" he scowled at me, as he began pouring what was probably the only pint of that fizzy keg brew, he had served all week.

Not long after that incident, a story had featured on the local television news programme "Scene South East". The story concerned the launch of a new "local" beer. The launch also coincided with the closure of the old Fremlin’s Brewery in Maidstone, and the transfer of production to the former George Beer & Rigdens Brewery in Faversham. The beer was to be called "Whitbread Trophy". Of course, as I was later to discover, Trophy was Whitbread's replacement for a whole range of local cask beers which Fremlin’s had brewed at Maidstone, the best known of which were their Three Star Bitter, and County Ale.

This aside, on my next visit to the Honest Miller, I sidled up to the bar and asked for a pint of "that new beer called Trophy". I was somewhat surprised to witness the beer being dispensed straight from one of the very plain-looking metal casks which I described earlier and was concerned that I would not like it. I need not have feared though, as I soon discovered the beer to be extremely palatable, consisting of a well-balanced blend of malt and hops. At least I was in favour with the landlord now; I was drinking (and enjoying) his carefully nurtured cask ale, rather than that nasty, fizzy, insipid Tankard.

Less than six months after I was legally old enough to drink, I left home in order to go to university. Moving from a small village to live in a big city (Manchester) was something of a culture shock and, for a while, left me rather homesick. In particular I missed the evenings in the Honest Miller, so it was with a sense of eager anticipation that I looked forward to vacation time when I could, once again, visit this gem of a pub. I introduced several of my college friends to the Honest Miller, as well as several girlfriends. My involvement with CAMRA, which began in early 1974, saw me recommending the pub for the Good Beer Guide; its first appearance being the 1975 edition

I spent many a happy hour in the Honest Miller, varying my choice of bars to suit both my mood, the company I was with, and the occasion. One of my fondest memories is of sitting in the public bar early one Christmas Eve. Apart from a couple of people in the other bar, I had the place to myself. A welcoming coal fire was burning in the grate whilst, from behind the servery, the traditional Christmas service of Twelve Carols & Six Lessons from Kings College Cambridge, could just be heard coming over the radio. As I sat there, enjoying my pint, I was enveloped by a deep-seated feeling of contentment, and I felt totally relaxed and at one with the world.

I believed that whatever else changed in the world, the Honest Miller would remain the same, and that it would still be there, as a haven, for me to retreat to every time I returned home. However, dark rumblings were afoot. The landlady had mentioned, on more than one occasion, that if the pub relied totally on the village for its custom, it would have closed long ago. Fortunately, its patronage by the college students and the increasing popularity of its food trade (its cold table in particular was held in very high regard) kept it going.

During the mid-1980’s, the pub suffered a disastrous fire, which started in the kitchen, before spreading to the rest of the pub. By this time, I had married and was living in Maidstone, but my parents kept me updated on what was happening in the village. It is my firm opinion that, so far as the brewery was concerned, the Honest Miller was not realising its true potential, and that the enforced closure, caused by the fire, gave them the excuse they had been looking for to make some alterations. During the re-building work the pub was extended, increasing in size by approximately one third.

It must be said that the architects and builders did an excellent job on the exterior of the building. The new section was clad with matching weatherboarding, the peg-tiled roof was extended, and identically styled sash-windows were fitted. The work was so well done that it was virtually impossible to distinguish the new section of the building from the old. Unfortunately, the excellent job which had been done on the outside did not extend to the interior of the pub.

I visited the Honest Miller shortly after it re-opened, expecting to see some changes, but totally unprepared for what greeted me. The former entrance lobby, with the public bar leading off to the left and the saloon leading off to the right, had been done away with, as had the main staircase which had risen up straight ahead. Instead, the door opened into one large bar, with about as much character as a barn! There was one long bar-counter replacing the former serving hatch, and whilst the beer was still cask-conditioned, it was no longer served direct from the cask. The open fire, which had heated the public bar, was still there, but had been knocked through to the other side, as had the walls on either side of the chimney breast. The entire bar area was carpeted throughout and whilst there was still a dart board in the area formerly occupied by the public bar, no-one was playing.

The cosy, intimate atmosphere of the pub had vanished. There would be no more jolly evenings playing cribbage or darts. Piped music was oozing out of strategically sited loudspeakers, with no escape from it. The locals were missing, no doubt driven out and moved on elsewhere. The food was from the brewery's own standardised menu, rather than the extensive cold table selection the pub had formerly offered. The white-painted, rough plastered walls had been papered over with chintzy wallpaper and decorated with a series of tacky "hunting" prints. In short, an unspoiled and unique pub, which was very popular with its locals, and which served the needs of the local community, had been lost forever. In its place was yet another standardised beer and food outlet, of the type that is virtually identical to hundreds of others up and down the country.

What annoyed me, more than anything else, was the fact there was nothing wrong with the pub as it was. There was no need to change anything. Even the outside toilets were fine the way they were! As seems the norm, in such cases, the brewery didn’t bother to consult the locals about the proposed changes; instead, they were just imposed with a “like it or go elsewhere” attitude. What saddened me most though, was the fact that this pub was formerly my local, and to see the place desecrated in such a fashion, was heartbreaking.

I haven't been back since then, preferring instead to forget what I saw that day, and remember the Honest Miller as it was. Besides, not long afterwards, my parents retired to Norfolk, a county where there were still plenty of unspoiled pubs. I therefore had no reason to visit the village of Brook, a settlement that in common with many other villages, slowly turned into a dormitory for well-to-do commuters, rather than a place that was home to a thriving agricultural community.

I’m going to leave the narrative here for the time being, partially because I still haven’t been back to the Honest Miller, but also because there have been quite a few changes affecting the pub. I didn’t experience any of them at a personal level, and instead I have relied on information about the pub that I discovered online. For example, the pub was closed and boarded up for the best part of three years following the COVID-19, before re-opening under new ownership in July 2024. Even then, its opening hours were limited as the new owners beavered away to get the place up to scratch again.

It closed again, last year, whilst one of the new co-owners underwent a bout of chemotherapy, but the aim is to reopen sometime in April, next month. When the Honest Miller does finally open its doors again, I expect to pay the pub a long overdue visit, as there is a lot of catching up to do! So, watch this space and be prepared for a lengthy update.

Rural English public houses in the mid-1970's - a nostalgic look-back

As you might imagine, I’ve seen more than my fair share of changes over the past fifty years, and nowhere is this more true than when it comes to the nation’s pubs. Not all of these changes were good, in fact the majority were the opposite, but to be fair most were the result of changes in tastes, fashions and society in general. I spent my formative years living in East Kent, and the pubs I knew in my youth were a mixture of both town and country ones. When I first started drinking, most of the pubs I visited were real in the sense that they were unspoilt "pubby" type pubs, even though most of the beer sold in them was not, certainly in the CAMRA accepted meaning of the word. Most of the beer was cask-conditioned back then but served by "top-pressure" a dispense system unacceptable to the Campaign for Real Ale.

I look back on those days with a considerable amount of nostalgia. Life in general was much simpler then, with far less restrictions, rules and regulations. Landlords were free to police their own pubs, without interference from, or "sting operations" by the likes of trading standards officials, the police, or public health inspectors. Licensees were also much more free to run their own businesses as they saw fit, rather than as the owning brewery or pub company dictated to them.

It’s hard to recall the first time that I set foot in a pub on my own, although I do recall visiting pubs with a handful of school friends. This was in the Ashford area of East Kent, where I lived at the time. What seems remarkable now, is that as seventeen-year-olds we had no trouble getting served in these pubs. We were accepted by landlords and locals alike and sometimes took on some of the latter at darts, even though we invariably lost! What most of these places had in common was the fact that they still functioned as traditional pubs, acting as focal points for the communities they served. Most had separate public and saloon bars, the former particularly appealing to my friends and I as we several of us were aspiring dart players. Beer was inevitably cheaper in the public bar, the furnishings fairly basic, with lino or tiled floors being the order of the day. The saloon bars, on the other hand, tended to be more comfortably furnished and were earmarked as places where one could go to on a date, should we manage to find and persuade "Miss Right".

Unfortunately, there was no Miss Right in the small village of Brook, where I lived with my parents and sister, although there were one or two living in nearby Wye. That’s another story and one for another day, as I want to continue with the theme of unspoilt pubs, and those I remember from my late teens and early twenties. I’m fortunate to belong to a generation that was lucky to have known this world unspoilt of pubs, even though it was soon to disappear.

There might have been an absence of suitable girlfriends in Brook, but this small village nestling at the foot of the North Downs, overlooking the gap made through these hills by the river Stour possessed a classic, two-bar pub called the Honest Miller. From the time I turned 18, and was old enough to drink, to the time I left the family home to go to university, this lovely old pub was the place where I spent many an evening. I’ve written a lengthy treatise on the pub, but it’s one which, for various reasons, I have never published. I fully intend to rectify this, although I will do so as a separate post. In the meantime, here’s an exert from an article I released 14 years ago, and it concerns a long-closed pub that I was lucky to have visited, shortly after my 18th birthday.

The Woodman’s Arms at Hassel Street, near Hastingleigh high up on the North Downs between Ashford and Canterbury, was a classic pub that has long since disappeared. I only had the pleasure of visiting it once, and having just turned eighteen regrettably did not, appreciate the finer points of this time-warp village inn, at the time. The pub was brought to my attention after it featured on the local television "news magazine", programme "Scene South East".  

This was back in the days of "Southern Television" the ITV franchise for the south. Southern were based in Southampton, which meant a distinct bias towards Hampshire, leaving Kent and Sussex lucky to get a mention. The only exception to this was on Friday evenings when the aforementioned programme was broadcast from the company's rather secondary studio in Dover.

What had caught the presenter’s eye was the fact that the Woodman’s Arms did not have a bar, something which, even 50 years ago, was highly unusual. Instead, drinkers sat around a table in what
appeared to be the licensee's front room. Having seen the pub featured on the programme, I decided to check it out for myself. So, one evening in June, I set off on my motorbike, in search of this highly unusual pub. Hassel Street was only a few miles away from my home village of Brook, but being tucked away amongst the maze of narrow lanes that lie at the top of the North Downs it took a bit of finding. I eventually succeeded and found the pub located half-way down a “No- Through Road”. From what I remember, it was an unassuming, white-painted building which was considerably older inside than it looked from the outside.

According to “Kent Pubs”, a guide to published by Batsford in 1966, the Woodman’s dated back to 1698, and had three rooms. One was a side room, that doubled up as a children’s room, one was for darts whilst the third acted as the bar-parlour. It was the latter that I made my way into, and I do vaguely remember there being a darts room to the left of the entrance. As shown on the television programme, the room was plainly decorated and simply furnished. There was a table, complete with tablecloth, in the centre of the room, and along one of the walls, was a dresser on which were placed various bottles of wines, spirits and bottled beers, plus a selection of glasses. Pushed up against the other three walls were some hard wooden chairs, occupied by about half a dozen or so customers.

Walking in, I could see no evidence of any beer pumps, so I enquired as to whether the pub sold draught beer. I was told that it did but, feeling very conscious of the lull in the conversation, decided to opt for just a half of bitter. The landlady retrieved a half-pint mug from the dresser and disappeared down some wooden stairs to the cellar below. The beer was almost certainly cask Whitbread Trophy from the former Fremlin’s Brewery in Faversham.

When the landlady returned with my drink, I made some half-hearted attempts at conversation but felt increasingly awkward and out of place. I had only recently reached the legal drinking age and was a somewhat shy and slightly introspected youth, who had still not properly acquired the necessary social skills to be able to mix well with different age groups.  Most of the clientele seemed to know each other, and whilst they were not unfriendly, I quickly decided that one swift half was enough. This was a great shame as this turned out to be my only visit to the Woodman’s.

Not long afterwards I went off to university, and apart from short visits to see my parents, during vacation time, never returned to live at home on a permanent basis. I am not certain exactly when, or indeed why the pub closed, but one possible clue to its demise is again given in “Kent Pubs”. The landlord of the Woodman’s worked as a postman in the mornings, which suggests that his main income came from delivering letters rather than serving pints. This indicates that the pub may not have been viable on its own, and given its isolated position, it is perhaps easy to see why.

The Black Bull at Newchurch, on Romney Marsh was a similar pub, with beer that was served straight from the cask, kept on shelving behind the bar. It was a Whitbread house when I first knew it, having called in with a school friend. Both of us had motorbikes, and had spent much of the summer (when we weren’t working), exploring some of the local pubs. The bar, where the beer was kept, was rather “posh” – presumably the “Saloon”, but to the left of the entrance, and along a corridor, there was a really basic room, complete with a stone floor, where one could play darts.

Sometime afterwards, Shepherd Neame acquired the pub from Whitbread, and the Black Bull held on for quite some time after those mid-seventies, summer time visits. It was around long enough for me to take the present Mrs PBT’s there, whilst honeymooning at the Mermaid Inn, in nearby Rye. She was not impressed, and after removing my rose-tinted spectacles, I could see why. There was an unkempt look and feel about the place which, with hindsight may have hinted at the pub’s imminent demise, but despite this I was saddened to learn of the pub's closure, not long afterwards.

Given the Black Bull’s isolated position, with very few chimney pots nearby, and the lack of a car-park – customers had to park on a narrow road and close to a bend, it’s closure was perhaps inevitable. I’m not even sure that the pub had a kitchen, although the aforementioned “Kent Pubs” does state that snacks were available. Perhaps the final line in the Black Bull’s entry, says it all. “The village still uses the house, but Major and Mrs Kely, retired here after service in the Far East, also attract the more sophisticated drinker.”

Half a century ago, it wasn’t unusual to find retired service personnel behind the bar, although they invariably seemed to be of a certain rank. One particular notice, that appeared on the wall of both bars of the Bybrook Tavern, on the outskirts of Ashford, was the source of much amusement to my friends and me. It read, “Shirts will be worn!” An obvious reference that the former major, who ran the pub, didn’t take kindly to half-dressed builder types, propping up the bar in his pub. My father would have described such wannabe artisans, as “sweaty oafs”, a term that still tickles me to this day, and on that note, we shall draw this article to a close.