A few more "Locals" I have known

In this second installment about the pubs, I was happy to regard as a “local,” we start off with the house move I referred to in the previous post. That relocation took place in 1985 and was a move from the county town of Kent to Tonbridge a smaller market town in the south west of the county. I’d been working in the town since late 1979, which was just a few months after moving to Maidstone, because it hadn’t taken me long to discover the high cost of commuting daily from Maidstone into London.

After moving to the capital in March 1978, I secured a position with Hedges & Butler who, at the time, were the wine and spirits division of Bass. My job in quality control, made use of the degree I’d gained at Salford University, even though “A” levels were probably a sufficient qualification for the position. I enjoyed the work, and H&B were a good employer, even though the salary wasn’t brilliant, but given the company’s location at Bromley-by-Bow in London’s East End, the commute from Maidstone was lengthy and expensive.

Fortunately, I managed to find a science-based position with an engineering company, based in Tonbridge, roughly 17 miles from Maidstone. I had no car in those days, so still had to travel into work, by train. It was a pleasant journey from Maidstone, along the Medway Valley Line to Tonbridge, via Paddock Wood, and as well as being quicker and easier than commuting into East London, there was the added bonus that my new job paid significantly more money than my previous one.

I continued commuting between the two towns until 1985 when I moved in with the present Mrs PBT's. I won’t into too much detail, apart from saying that my previous wife had grown apart. Possibly, we had married too young, (we were both just 22 at the time), but with different views about starting a family, as well as what we wanted out of life, we slowly drifted apart and ended up going our separate ways. So, not only did my move to Tonbridge mean a change of location and employment, it also meant a change of partner as well.

Having worked in Tonbridge for nearly five years, I was already quite familiar with many of the town’s pubs, a task made easier by the fact that lunchtime drinking was quite common in the workplace especially, and especially so on a Friday. The pub my colleagues and I frequented the most, was the Man of Kent, a lovely old weather boarded, white-painted Kentish pub, tucked away down a side street, just off Tonbridge High Street. The Man of Kent also holds the honour of the first Tonbridge pub I ever drank in, as shortly after accepting job offer, I made a return visit to the town, in order to spy out the land, get to know the town I would be working in, and plan out the quickest route from the railway station to my new employer’s factory at Cannon Bridge Works.

Getting to know the town, meant getting to know the pubs, and as well as being an attractive and welcoming traditional pub, I discovered, to my great joy, that the Man of Kent served a very acceptable pint of Draught Bass. The excellent Bass remained a welcome feature of the pub for many years to come, but sadly didn't last through into the 21^st Century. It’s saving grace today, is the Harvey’s Sussex Best. Whilst the Man of Kent wasn’t exactly a local, it remained as one of the primary pubs for a lunchtime pint, especially on a Friday, and many is the time that a colleague I worked with in the R&D department would stagger back to the office and try not to fall asleep in the afternoon.

When I first moved in with the present Mrs Bailey, she was renting a cold and rather drafty house, at the top of a hill, in the aptly named Baltic Road. Once my divorce settlement came through, and I gained access to my share of the equity from the house in Maidstone, we purchased a modernised and far warmer terraced house, tucked away down a narrow side street, just a few minutes’ walk away.  We stayed at our new home for seven years, and after starting a family moved once more to a larger 1930’s semi, where we have lived these past 30 odd years.  This is by far the longest period I have ever lived in one property, and whilst Eileen hasn’t been anywhere near as peripatetic as I have, the same applies to her.

Prior to the moving to our current home, there were two pubs that I started to used as locals, the first one being the Foresters Arms in Quarry Hill, a two bar Shepherd Neame house run initially by an old school landlord, but later by a much younger couple, who were far more welcoming than the previous and slightly scary one-eyed landlord. This individual wore an eye patch, and despite his visual impairment, didn’t miss a trick. He would sit on a stool the saloon, on the customer’s side of the bar, holding court amongst his equally aged cronies, whilst surveying all he saw. He would also instruct the bar staff as to who to serve next.

Mike and Daphne were much more friendly, and back in those pre-child days Mrs PBT’s and I would often head down to the Foresters for the evening, taking our pet dog along as well. The friendly, but no-nonsense young couple didn’t stay that long, and following their departure, Shepherd Neame spent a lot of money turning the place into a single bar pub.  Unashamedly the brewery management went after the younger crowd, and whilst this might have worked if they’d retained both bars, it didn’t with the new look, open plan interior they’d created. Worse still Shepherd Neame beers went downhill, and whilst there’s never been satisfactory explanation for this, many Shep’s drinkers of my age, and beyond, noticed the same thing.

Fortunately, I managed to find a second pub through a work colleague, and although this was further away from where we were living, it soon ended up becoming my local, in place of the Foresters. My new local, went under the  strange,and slightly creepy name of Uncle Tom's Cabin. The clue is in the name, as the pub, which was previously known as the Victoria, was bought by an individual called Tom who, must have thought his rather dubiously sounding name was the right one for this back street local. It was certainly comfortable and cosy, which was possibly apt for the “cabin” part of the name, but the novel wasn’t without controversy in its time, even if it was anti-slavery, and to my mind at least, never seemed really appropriate for a pub in late 20^th century Britain.

Tom was a friendly and good-natured individual, who ran the place with his wife Margaret, even though according to rumour, the landlady was rather fond of a drink, an occupational hazard for many a licensee. The pub was situated in Lavender Hill, a narrow road of Victorian terraced houses, and consisted of two of these cottages knocked through into one. It was a free house, and stocked beers from the former South Wales Clubs Brewery of Pontyclun, South Wales. This was a strange choice of ale, but I imagine there were financial reasons behind the decision, possibly in the form of a loan.

These sort of tied loan agreements, were quite common, at one time in the licensed trade, and might still be today, for all I know. Several years later, the SWCB changed its name to the Crown Brewery, and later merged with Llaneli-based Buckleys Brewery. I was never that keen on the beers from Pontyclun, as whilst they may well have suited workers employed in the coal and steel industries of South Wales, they didn’t impress local Kentish drinkers who prefer a few more hops in their beer.

Several years later, a couple called Richard and Joan, took over, and in response from requests from the pub regulars, the couple approached Greene King, following the opening of a depot in Tunbridge Wells, by the Bury St Edmund's regional. It may seem strange today, but back in the late 1980’s, GK beers were quite rare in the southeast, and to my palate at least, tasted better than the current offerings. They were also far preferable to those of the South Wales Clubs Brewery.  Several years later, Richard the landlord organised a mini-bus outing to the GK brewery at Bury which, given the current proposed closure of the Westgate Brewery, allowed us to experience the full, art deco splendour of the 1930’s brewhouse.

There was a good mix of customers in the Cabin, as it became known including several childless couples the same ages Eileen and me. Two of them lived next door to one another, and in a rather strange twist, ended up swapping partners, on a permanent basis. This foursome lived even more local than us, and not only in the same road as the Cabin, but virtually opposite the pub. As well as drinking in the pub together, we occasionally held dinner parties at each other’s houses, although all that changed with the arrival of our son Matthew on the scene, and we slowly lost touch with the group.

A poignant reminder came last year, when I received a message via social media that one of the girls had sadly passed away.  I don’t really know the circumstances, surrounding her death, apart from learning that Caz had been living in Norfolk at the time, possibly with a different partner, but a memorial drink had been arranged at Uncle Tom's Cabin, which by this time had changed its name to the New Drum, in reflection of its original 19^th century name, the Drum. Eileen and I went along, Quite a few of the people we used to know, from 30 years ago, turned up to pay their last respects, and exchange memories of Caz who, as we all agreed, was fun and good company to be with.

It was my first visit to the pub for a long time, and when I saw the keg only line-up, I knew just how much times had changed. During the final years of my acquaintance with it, the Cabin had morphed into more of a sports pub, than a place for a social drink, so I wasn’t really surprised at the lack of cask. My reputation has obviously gone before me, as the landlord apologised over the absence of cask, and it was then that I recognised him as the TV sports-mad son of the current owner. Fortunately, the Draught Guinness was quite drinkable, so it was a case of any port in a storm.

Before closing the page on Uncle Tom's Cabin, it’s worth mentioning that the pub was well known for lock-ins. The lights would be dimmed, the curtains closed, and the front door put on the latch. Drinkers were asked to leave quietly, so as not to attract any attention, although I think by then the local constabulary had given up trying to catch customers drinking after hours, so long as there wasn't any trouble.

Sunday lunchtimes were my favourite session, and I would head off with the family dog, and after giving her a good run around the local fields, I would adjourn to the Cabin. After her earlier exertions, the hound would lie quietly under the table, whilst I went to get the drinks in. It wasn’t unusual for me to remain in the pub until about 4pm, and don’t forget this was back in the day when pubs were officially forced to close in the afternoon. The pooch and I would then head for home, to enjoy a nice Sunday roast dinner.

Things change of course, and when son Matthew came on the scene, I had to behave myself and not stop out all afternoon. At some stage the Cabin changed hands again, following the retirement of Richard and Joan. Further alterations were made to the pub’s interior which, whilst making better use of the available space, did away with the cosy and comfortable feel of the old pub.

Today, after nearly 50 years of living in Tonbridge, and even longer working there, I don't have a local as such. This is primarily because the two best pubs in the town, are too far away on foot to count as a local. It's a 25 minutes’ walk to the Nelson Arms, and 35 minutes’ on foot to Fuggles Beer Café. The former is by far the best traditional pub in Tonbridge, whilst the latter, as well as stocking four cask ales, offers an amazing choice of craft and international beers –many on draught and others in bottles. Both outlets are well worth visiting, and both attract their own type of clientele. The Nelson crowd is perhaps more local in makeup, whilst Fuggle’s customers are probably more of a transient one.

It’s just as well I don't live any closer to either of these excellent outlets otherwise, I would be spending more time in them and have even less time to write this blog. However, I know with more than fair degree of confidence what to expect in either of them, and I also know that as well as the ambience and sense of bonhomie, both the Nelson and Fuggles will deliver an interesting and, at times, unusual choice of beers.