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.

Return to the Chaser

Just a short catch-up post, as this morning I took young master Matthew out for a spot of breakfast. He’s got a week off from work and is using his time wisely, catching up himself on things that needed doing- getting the MOT on his car renewed, sorting out his room, arranging finance to cover the final settlement figure on his car, spending time with his girlfriend, who isn’t off work this week. Oh, to be young again, or perhaps not, more likely being young, but knowing what I know now, but not really that either, as learning and finding things out for oneself are the natural way of things, and are part of growing up.

Anyway, on the first day of my long weekend (Thursday), Matthew surfaced at the same time as Mrs PBT’s and I, and once all three of us were washed and dressed, we jumped in the car and drove over to Mabledon Farm, which is where Eileen does her regular, weekly book-keeping stint for a local scaffolding firm. We dropped her off and then set a course for Shipbourne, a small and attractive village, situated on high ground, to the north of Tonbridge, which also happens to be the home of the Chaser Inn.

Our visit was a virtual repeat of the one we made back in November, which was the day before my day trip to south Devon, and the lovely little town of Topsham. There are no similar epic journeys planned at the moment, at least not on dry land, but in just under a fortnight’s time, Mrs PBT’s should be venturing forth on the high seas, as we embark on a 16-night cruise along the coast of Norway. Matthew will be house-sitting whilst we’re away, a task he’s undertaken for several previous voyages.

The Chaser breakfast represented a continuation of what had once been a regular occurrence, but one that was understandably somewhat curtailed by the appearance of a new person in Matthew’s life. I chose the Chaser, because I wanted to move away from some of the greasy spoon type places, Matthew and his mates like to frequent. I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a great believer in establishments which not only use top quality ingredients, but meat and eggs that are locally sourced. In addition, breakfasting at a pub, gives a welcome boost to a sector that is facing enormous challenges, at the moment.

We arrived in Shipbourne, shortly before 10am, and not surprisingly found all the parking places close to the pub, already taken. It wasn’t looking that good on the extensive common, opposite either, and whilst we eventually found a vacant spot, it was quite a hike back to the Chaser. The cause of this congestion/popularity was the weekly Farmers’ Market, held every Thursday at the nearby church of St Giles. According to their website, the church organises the Market as a service to the local community and judging by the number of diners and coffee drinkers at the Chaser, it appears to have a positive knock-on effect for the local pub as well.

I’m not sure if we could have had a beer with our breakfast, but the great big porcelain pot of tea was a more than adequate substitute. Both of us went straight in with a full English, of bacon, sausage, tomato, hash brown (I know they’re not English!) and black pudding, cooked to perfection, and served with two slices of thick, slices of toast. There were a lot more people in the pub than on our previous visit, and there was quite a few walkers too, amongst their number.

The Chaser itself is a large and impressive building with a tile hung exterior and a white veranda at the front. There is an attractive conservatory at the rear, plus a wood panelled and timber roofed dining area at the rear. If you haven’t twigged already, the Chaser is an unashamed, food-led pub with plenty of seating intermingled with unsegregated drinking areas and open fires. For the record, The Chaser is owned by pub-group Whiting & Hammond, whose portfolio includes the Little Brown Jug in Chiddingstone Causeway, the Cricketers at Meopham, the Bull at Otford, and the Rose & Crown at Orpington. The latter pub seems to be recent addition to the chain.

 

Technology and me - we don't agree!

There’s something about me and technology which means we quite often don’t get on well together. Regular readers will probably recall the trouble I had with my Smartwatch, a few months ago, when this time piece stopped recording the number of steps I’d walked, followed by a period when I was virtually locked out of my Google account. Fortunately, I was able to rectify these errors without too much trouble, even though there was a fair amount of soul-searching, on social media. I felt especially proud of solving the issue affecting the step counter, which in the end turned out to be a matter of trial and error.

This might seem a little fluffy, if that's the right word, but a week or so ago another tech problem reared its head, and this time it was a problem with my Smartphone. I appreciate that not all readers possess such a device, although I’m assuming that the majority of followers do, and even if, like one of my colleagues, your mobile phone is exactly that – a device for making and receiving calls, whilst on the move, or from different locations, you will appreciate what I am talking about.

So, the other week I noticed my Smartphone was advising that it could make or receive emergency calls only. Given the rural location of my workplace, I wasn’t overly surprised, as reception on mobile networks locally, are patchy at best, and non-existent at worst, but when the on-screen message persisted, when I arrived home, I began to suspect that something was up.

Everything else though, associated with the phone was working, so I could send and receive emails, listen to music downloads, take photos as well as surfing the net. In fact, my phone could do everything except make and receive phone calls – proof that the humble mobile phone, the device the Germans refer to as a “Handy”, has evolved far beyond its original purpose. I asked a work colleague who is far more “tech savvy” than me to take a look, and after accessing the device’s self-diagnostic features, told me that the SIM card wasn’t working.

A SIM card is a small plastic card with a computer chip that slots into your phone. It holds information, including your phone number, and allows you to connect with your network. SIM cards are assigned a unique identification number that stores information about your phone plan (type of plan, available data, voice minutes, and text messages.) Carriers then use this information to verify your account status and charge you accordingly on your monthly bill.

Everything else that isn't your phone number will still be on your phone after you remove the SIM card, although you won't be able to call or text those contacts without a phone number. Also, some apps may not work without a network connection. My colleague tried removing the SIM and then cleaning it (wiping it on a piece of clean cloth), before re-inserting it, but this made no difference.

Long story short, I contacted O2, my contract provider, using a landline, explained the problem, and after correctly answering the various security questions associated with my account, O2 agreed to post a replacement SIM to my home address. The latter duly arrived a few days later (a Saturday), and that afternoon I followed the instructions to swap the existing SIM for the new one. So far, so good, except it still didn’t work, and the new SIM was displaying a “Number Unknown” message.

This was where Mrs PBT’s stepped in, especially as she considers herself to be far more tech savvy than me. Despite this, the card stubbornly refused to connect to the network, which led her to advise that “SIMs can sometimes take a while to do this”. Despite my skepticism I checked online, and saw the same message, but one that seemed to contradict the instructions supplied with the new SIM. “Leave it until the morning”, was her sage advice, but come Sunday morning, my phone still had no network connection, which is when I decided to seek outside assistance.

There used to be an O2 shop in Tonbridge, but that closed several years ago, so just before midday, I headed over to the group’s Tunbridge Wells outlet. My bus pass allowed me a free return journey, even though services aren’t quite as frequent on a Sunday. I made my way to the O2 shop, and as it wasn’t too busy, a helpful young lady dealt with my enquiry straight away. After a series of checks, on both the phone and me, photo-ID driving license, bank card, plus verification of my mother’s maiden name (standard ID question), she informed me that despite having just replaced the SIM, it too was faulty. “I shall install another new SIM card”, she said, and joy of joy, the replacement, “New one” worked! After thanking her profusely, it was time for a celebration pint or two, but first I had one more shop to visit. M&S, everyone’s favourite retailer, and the store I was directed to by the staff in outdoor clothing retailer, Trespass.

I was after a pair of thermal undergarments aka,“long johns”. Norway is still  quite cold in mid-March, especially beyond the Arctic Circle, and that’s the destination where Mrs PBT’s and I are heading to in a couple of weeks’ time. Norway to be precise, and what Trespass were unable to deliver Marks & Sparks had the said garments in various sizes, including one that would fit me, and keep out the Arctic chill, when I’m wandering the streets of Tromsø or Narvik.

Finally, it was time for a pint, and my plan was to head away from the shopping area of Tunbridge Wells, and choose a couple of hostelries, close to the route of the bus home. I headed up towards Mount Ephraim, and the area opposite the old Tunbridge Wells Hospital. The former Kent & Sussex, usually referred to as the “Kent & Snuffit”, is no more and a mixed development of expensive looking apartments and town houses has taken its place, but directly opposite is Sankey’s.

I wrote about this family-run pub and brasserie a few months ago, but as it had been quite a few months since I actually set foot in the place, I was keen to find out what was occurring. Sankey’s offers a wide range of mainly keg beers, from various Kent and Sussex microbrewes, supposedly alongside a couple of cask ales. I saw no evidence of the latter, but perhaps they were available downstairs, as Sankey’s is spread over two levels. Keen to get a beer, I opted for a glass of Silver Lake, a pilsner-style beer from Lakedown Brewery. The latter is based at Who front-man, Roger Daltrey’s family estate and fishing lakes, close to the Sussex village of Burwash. The company’s beers are a regular find in many pubs in this part of the world and have acquired a good reputation. My pilsner-style beer certainly slid down well, especially after I managed to find a seat. 

I’ve actually got one of the bar staff to thank for that, as with the pub absolutely rammed, mainly with people dining it was Sunday lunchtime, after all, seats were at a premium. The very pleasant young lady who’d served me a short while before suggested I park myself down at one of the stools in front of the fireplace. Fortunately, the fire wasn’t lit so I didn’t roast and instead had a good vantage point over what was going on.  Apart from people watching, the walls and ceilings of Sankey’s are well worth a look, as they are festooned with what must be one of the most comprehensive collections of enamelled metal advertising signs in existence. Most of this memorabilia relates to long lost, but not forgotten local breweries, so if brewery history floats your boat, take a look the next time you are in Tunbridge Wells.

It was time to move on, and it wasn’t far to the George, a pub I last visited back in the summer. Like the previous pub, the George was heaving, and after elbowing my place to the bar, and ordering a pint of Fonthill Best – one of several beers brewed onsite, in an old stable building. In 1739, the George was a coaching inn for those travelling between Tunbridge Wells and London, and with its graceful exterior, plus an interior full of exposed beams, brickwork, fireplaces, and oak floorboards, the building still exudes warmth and nostalgia from every corner.

I managed to find a stool, set with its back to the window, where I could sit in full view of the punters, enjoying their Sunday lunches. With hindsight, it hadn’t been the best time to be in either pub, but circumstances being what they were, and the fact I managed to get my phone sorted out, were compensation enough. What was encouraging and heartening, was seeing both establishments not just thriving, but buzzing with it.

I’d timed my walk to the nearest bus stop, just right, so didn’t have long to wait for the next bus back to Tonbridge. Unfortunately, there was a lengthy wait, until the next service, so I had to hike back up the hill to Bailey Towers. Sunday services are limited, so I ended up walking home, after mission accomplished. Phone sorted, plus thermal leggings, ahead of our forthcoming Arctic holiday.

 

 

Rainy day blues, and trouble in publand

With a four-day weekend opening up in front of me, the question of what to do and where to go, once again raises its head. I shall be giving that question a lot of thought, over the next few days, but ahead of any trips out, the question of what to write about in the meantime also springs to mind. Before attempting to answer that question, the one constant at the moment is the never-ending rain. We’re over six weeks into the new year now, and I don’t think that a day has passed where there hasn’t been any rain. Instead, the downpours have been pretty incessant, and it’s the sort of weather that would have led to my dear old dad making one of his quips about having to plant rice in the garden, because that would be the only thing capable of withstanding the permanently wet conditions!

Rainfall is obviously part of the natural cycle, although it normally occurs in more measured quantities. For me, it is not so much a case of wanting to get out in the garden, even though there are some things that require my attention, but my main gripe is that excessive rain has an adverse effect on our cross-country footpath network, making many of them impassable, at worst, or slippery and excessively muddy at best.

Some intrepid individuals are still managing to get out into the countryside, and whilst some of them come across as foolhardy, or even reckless, other appear not to care, and throw all caution to the wind. James Pavlou, the intrepid individual behind the Walk Tonbridge website, is one such character, and is the person putting all of us armchair walking enthusiasts to shame. James’s website, which he originally set up during lock-down, sets out a couple of dozen walks, in and around Tonbridge, as well as including several audio recordings featuring older residents of the town, looking back at what Tonbridge used to be like. Looking at some of his postings on social media, he comes across as someone who rarely lets the weather interfere with his outdoor activities, so maybe I should allow him to shame me into going out, no matter what conditions are like underfoot.

These consideration aside, there’s no getting away from some of the other stories that are dominating the news, at the moment. One of the biggest news item is that many pubs are feeling the pinch, or worse, particularly when the belt tightening and associated money troubles, turn into abject closure. The causes of pubs going out of business are nowhere near as simple as some commentators would have us believe and are normally down to a combination of many varied factors, rather than, as certain newspapers, would like us to believe, are the fault of Rachel from Accounts!

I wouldn’t like to name them all, and I’d be pushed to identify more than a handful, but if I were a betting person I’d say changing demographics play a key role, along with changes in both society and peoples’ behavioural patterns. Put bluntly, people don’t go to pubs in the same numbers, or as frequently, as they once did. I know this from looking back at my own behaviour, because 40 years ago, it was quite common for me to wander a few hundred yards down the road, and enjoy several pints of beer, in the local pub. This was quite normal behaviour and was something that was repeated on most nights. It may have been a hangover (not literally), from my student days, when most evenings were spent in the pub, but back in the early 80’s, it seemed quite normal behaviour.

On top of enjoying a drink, most evenings, lunchtime drinking was still quite common, even though it wasn’t actively encouraged in the workplace. Those were the days when a boozy lunchtime session, (two or three pints), especially on a Friday, marked the unofficial end of the working week. Beer prices were also relatively cheaper than they are today, so for someone who enjoyed a few pints, such behaviour didn’t exactly break the bank.

The other main changes have been those involving the pub industry itself, and here, I’m afraid, the self-proclaimed beer drinker’s champion, CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale, has a lot to answer for. I don’t want to dwell too much on the effects of the 1989 Beer Orders, apart from saying that a well-meaning attempt to improve consumer choice and encourage more competition into the pub trade, had the opposite effect. 

There are a lot of different threads leading into this story, so rather than attempt to explain what happened, this link, from the Morning Advertiser, details both the thinking behind the legislation, and how it ended up going horribly wrong. CAMRA’s fault, was its naivety in whole-heartedly welcoming the changes because of the supposed boost that it offered to cask ale, whilst conveniently ignoring the considerable downsides, associated with this deal. (For the record, I was one of the many CAMRA members who thought the Beer Orders were a good thing, at the time!) Failing to anticipate the inevitable fall-out, led to many pub owners – individuals, or pub-owning companies, being saddled with enormous amount of debt, as the traditional low-cost, pub-tie, disappeared, allowing market forces to dictate both rent and drink prices.

Finally, I must mention the sad news that I saw on Chris Dyson’s excellent, Real Ale, Real Music website. In an article about legendary Keighley brewer, Timothy Taylor, Chris describes how the company has been divesting itself of pubs within their traditional Yorkshire heartland, and with particular respect to some of their more rural outlets. He mentions three specific rural pubs in Calderdale, which were well-established Taylor’s pubs back in the 1970's, when he first came across the brewery. They were all in attractive rural settings, with two of them within a mile of each other in the parish of Wadsworth.

Chris goes into some detail about all three pubs, but I’m going to reserve mention for just one of them, namely the Hare & Hounds at Lane Ends, high in the Pennines above the town of Hebden Bridge. I visited the pub in 1976, back in my student days at Salford University, and at the time thought it was one of the most wonderful pubs I had ever visited. Chris had also been to this pub, probably around the same time as my visit. He described how it proudly served the full range of Taylors' beers, including their premium bitter, Landlord. At the time, the Hare & Hounds was one of only three pubs - all tied houses - who were allowed by the brewery to serve the beer – a fact which seems incredible these days!

I wrote about visiting the Hare & Hounds, in an early blog post, and whilst you can read that piece here, it’s worth recounting it for the sake of continuity. Back then, one of my housemates was a keen cyclist, as well as an intrepid pub explorer, and on one of this trips he’d discovered the Hare & Hounds, a marvellous Timothy Taylor’s pub, high up in the Pennines. Fired up with enthusiasm, the pair of us, along with a group of fellow students, borrowed the Student Union van for the evening. We’d persuaded a non-beer drinking, fellow student to be our driver for the evening, and armed with a map, set off for the Hare & Hounds.

It was quite a drive across the Pennines from Greater Manchester, but as it was a June evening we arrived at our destination whilst it was still light. I can still remember our driver parking the bus in the bottom car park to the left of the pub and then walking up with the rest of us to the entrance. We were rewarded with an unspoilt, stone-built pub, enhanced by its rural location set amongst some striking Pennine scenery. To a country boy like myself, who’d been stuck amongst the grime of urban 1970’s Manchester, both pub and location, were heaven sent. We enjoyed an excellent evening at the pub, especially as the licensee didn't seem at all bothered about closing time. It was rather late by the time we left, and we were all a little bit the worse for drink!

Chris’s experience of the Hare & Hounds appears to match my own, but sadly he reports that this marvellous old, rural has now closed. He describes how, over the years whilst still being a mecca for Taylor’s drinkers, the pub became more food-focussed and gradually lost its way and its customers. This was despite an attempt at providing overnight accommodation. I had sometimes dreamt of making a return visit to the Hare & Hounds but now  that such an experience will not be possible. These closures serve as a stark reminder of the effects of the changes that have affected the pub industry, over the past four decades, and now, more than ever it really is a case of “use it or lose it” when it comes to our cherished pub stock.

 

 

A Sevenoaks selection

On a rather cold Friday, I took the bus over to nearby Sevenoaks, with the express purpose of visiting a couple of pubs, at the top end of the town. By “top end” I am referring to the old part of Sevenoaks, that is close to the historic pile of Knole Park. Travelling over from Tonbridge by road-based transportation rather than rail was a deliberate decision on my part, and it wasn’t a money saving one either. You see, whilst I can travel by bus f.o.c. arriving in the town by motorised transport allows the option of reaching the precise area of Sevenoaks that suits your agenda. This is in complete contrast to arriving by train, because the town’s rail station is right at the bottom of the town (northern end), meaning a steep climb up to the centre of Sevenoaks.

This suited my agenda, as the pubs I had in mind are all at the top end of town, which is the oldest part of Sevenoaks. Travelling from Tonbridge, I took the No.4 Go-Coach service, a fairly new operator on the route between the two towns, although if I’m honest, I only boarded this bus because it turned up a few minutes before the No.402 Arriva service that I planned to take. The bus dropped me at Sevenoaks bus station, a facility that is now missing from the majority of UK towns. The compact, but functional bus station has its own café, plus some all-important toilet facilities, handily situated for use, prior to boarding the bus home!

I’d originally bookmarked two pubs to visit, but after passing the recently re-vamped Chequers Inn (possibly the oldest pub in town), I couldn’t resist calling in for a quick look – and a quick beer! St Austell Tribute was my choice, but I could have gone for Harvey’s Best or “Chequers Ale” a house beer, brewed by Greene King apparently, and probably just re-badged, GK IPA. As mentioned, the pub had received a makeover, although apart from new carpets and comfy chairs, the two bars didn’t seem that different to what I remember.

I ended up drinking up quickly, because the quiet area I was sitting in, admittedly quite close to the bar, was “invaded” for want of a better word, by what seemed to be a pre-arranged, works reunion. Mostly female, with a token male participant, it was rather OTT and "lovey-dovey", for my liking. With hindsight I’d have been better off round in the other section of the bar, where a log-burner was radiating some welcome heat. No pictures, I’m afraid, as there was just too many people present, and not for the only time either, that day.

Departing via the rear entrance, which was close to the toilets, I crossed London Road and then turned into South Park. This road is home to Sevenoaks Post Office, and it's a real rarity these days to find a proper PO, rather than just a counter crammed into a local newsagents or convenience store. This configuration might be because there is still a postal sorting office to the rear of the Sevenoaks facility.

A short distance along South Park, and just opposite the sorting office, is the South Park Tap, a micro-pub which opened in May 2023 in a former café and sandwich bar. The Tap is a welcome addition to the town’s drinking scene and features a green-tiled facade leading into an attractively furnished and decorated interior. There are two drinking areas, set on different levels, with the rear one accessed down some quite steep steps. There is also a very small outside courtyard, but with temperatures hovering around 6° Celsius, I gave that area a miss.

With two Tonbridge Brewery beers on tap, along with one from Canterbury Ales (The Pardoners), there was a reasonable sized group of drinkers milling around the bar when I arrived. Unfortunately, by the time I’d finished my pint of Tonbridge IPA, there was only me, sitting by myself on the comfortable bench seating, opposite the bar. Something I said? I asked the young lad, sitting behind the bar and glued to his phone, how trade had been. 

He said business had been OK, and he was waiting for a pre-booked group of drinkers to turn up alter in the afternoon. As well as a well-kept pint served to me in a dimpled mug, the Tap had Tayto ready-salted crisps as part of their snack offering. Tayto crisps are a rare sight, on this side of the Irish Sea, but Mrs PBT’s and I enjoyed a few packs last spring, when our cruise ship stopped off in Cobh (the port town for Cork).

It was time to move on, and there wasn’t far to go to the third pub of the day. I’d walked past it earlier, when looking for somewhere to purchase a roll, or similar lunchtime snack. Tucked away, down a pedestrian access running between London Road and the High Street, is the Restoration, a Shepherd Neame pub. Formerly known as the Black Boy, the pub changed its name to its current one, a few years ago, and underwent a complete makeover at the same time. The name change is said to maintain the link to Charles II, known at the time of his reign as a “black boy”. Regardless of its name change, the pub dates back to reign of the aforementioned king, although given the extent of recent alterations, it’s difficult to confirm its antiquity.

The Restoration was certainly buzzing last Friday afternoon, primarily with “ladies that lunch”. The “Reserved” signs on many of the unoccupied tables, hinted at the expected trade, later in the day. Master Brew plus Whitstable Bay Pale were the two cask offerings, and I plumped for the latter, served to me by one of two pleasant and friendly girls behind the bar.  As with the Chequers, opportunities for internal photos were non-existent, so you’ll have to make do with a couple of exterior shots. This issue aside, it was good to see the Restoration enjoying a buoyant and vibrant trade.

I left the pub, and headed back towards the bus station, stopping at the town’s Bagel Station shop to pick up a cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, served warm, straight from the griddle. This was my first visit to the Sevenoaks bagel outlet, and with the décor and signage practically identical to the recently opened Tonbridge store, I naturally assumed they were both part of the same group. Sorry for mentioning it, I thought, as the individual serving me was quite off when I referred to the Tonbridge outlet – so perhaps it is a breakaway store, that split away from the established one, after a falling out. People can get quite petty and protective, but in response to a perfectly innocent and well-meaning question on my part, why be such an arse?

That aside, the shop was doing a roaring trade, numbering office staff, shop workers and sixth former's amongst its queuing customers. I wandered back to the bus station, plonked myself down on a bench and got stuck into my bagel. A trifle too rich perhaps, but it was the combination written up on the menu board that caught my attention. I finished my lunch just before the 402-bus turned up, which was just as well, as eating on board is no doubt frowned upon. I’d already upset one individual at his place of work and didn’t want to upset another.

After a speedy journey back to Tonbridge, I waited for the connecting bus that would take me close to the top of my road. As I walked down the road, I bumped into the neighbour I’d spoken to earlier that morning. Nick has agreed to carry out a spot of tree work for me, on a couple of trees that have got a little out of hand. As we were both passing Bailey Towers,  he came over for a closer look, and on that note my trip over to Sevenoaks, drew to a conclusion.