My Locals - over the years

Back in February I reviewed one of the best books I have read about pubs, for a long, long time. This followed The Local – A History of the English Pub, researched and written by historian Paul Jennings, finding its way into my Christmas stocking. Author, Paul Jennings is a history tutor at the University of Bradford, and his book deserves to be recognised as one of the best, and most accurate volumes on the unique institution that is the English Pub. Rather than repeat what I wrote just a few months ago, I will refer you back to that review, so you can make your own minds up on the claims I have made above.

I also strongly recommend you buy a copy, especially if you like and care about pubs, but the real reason for my referring back to a post that is barely 12 weeks old, is to ask the question what actually constitutes a local? This is particularly poignant as we approach the end of the first quarter of the 21st century.

So, what exactly makes it pub a local in these changing times and what is it about such places that make us feel comfortable, at ease and almost at home there. In fact, that analogy with home it's very appropriate, because away from the confines of our own houses and dwelling places, the local pub I still for many people, home from home. A second home if you like.

The trouble is that after half a century of thumbing my way through umpteen pub guides and having personal experience of a least a dozen pubs which I was confident enough to describe as my local, I still don't know the answer, to that question. In addtion, despite all the research, learned papers and umpteen words written on the subject, I don't think historian and author Paul Jennings does either.

What I'm going to do now is describe some of the many and varied pubs which, over the years, ended up becoming my local. Some might surprise you, whilst others might not but after I've introduced you today's doesn't have so pubs and told you what about them actually appealed to me, I'm going to end up explaining why, in 2024, I don't have a local. More to the point I haven't had one for many years although I do have a small number of pubs, where I prefer to spend my time and hard and cash.

The Honest Miller, Brook by Robin Webster, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

My first true “local” was the Honest Miller, situated in the small village of Brook to the east of Ashford, which nestles at the foot of the North Downs, overlooking the gap made through these hills by the river Stour. I spent my teenage years living in the village, and both settlement and pub, still retain fond memories for me. The Honest Miller was a handsome, typically white-painted Kentish building with a weather boarded upper half, topped with a peg-tiled roof. It dated 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.

Now that’s all I’m going to say about the pub for the time being, as the Honest Miller, which is currently closed, is worthy of a post of its own. So, moving swiftly on, I left both the village and my family home in the autumn of 1973, after obtaining a place at the University Salford, to study for an honours degree in Biology. 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. As well as missing family and friends, I missed the evenings in the Honest Miller, and it was to be quite some time before I found a pub with the same appeal.

I’d ended up at Salford, thanks to UCCA clearing, having failed to obtain the requisite grades at A level, and arriving late, struggled to find suitable student accommodation close to the university. I ended up spending the first term living with my aunt and her family in the town of Romiley, a few miles outside of Stockport. The next two terms were spent in lodgings – “digs” as they used to call them, close to the town of Eccles. It wasn’t until the start of my second year at Salford that things became more settled, and I obtained a room at the university halls of residence. These were located a couple of miles from the university campus, on high ground overlooking the river Irwell. They were modern, bright, and all inclusive, but most of all they were warm, unlike my previous dwelling place on the edge of Eccles.

Although there was a large Boddington’s house called the Kersal Hotel, almost opposite the residences, it wasn't particularly welcoming to students. This was evidenced by its "male only" Vault (public bar). Instead, together with a student friend, who lived nearby, I started going to the Star Inn, a small back street Robinson’s pub, about 30 minutes’ walk away. Despite its size, the Star still had two bars and we would normally frequent the lounge, which was the larger of these.  Somewhat unusually for a Robinson’s pub back then, the cask beer was dispensed by hand pull, rather than the more usual electric pumps.

The Star was popular with students and was also home to a folk club. My friend Nick and I spent many evenings there, enjoying the excellent Robinson’s beer whilst soaking up the atmosphere of this tucked-away, back street local. Following my graduation, I moved to a rented house overlooking Salford’s Albert Park, which I shared with my then girlfriend who later became the first Mrs Bailey. The Star continued to be our local, until we had to leave the property a year later, following her own graduation.  This was because our landlord had a contract with Salford Uni, that restricted him to let the property only to students registered there.

After several weeks of searching, we found a two-bedroom flat above a butcher’s shop, in Romiley, of all places.  So, somewhat ironically the town that provided my first place to stay in Greater Manchester, turned out to be my last, after my then wife secured a well-paid, permanent post in London. That was several months down the line, so in between we enjoyed six months living in this pleasant north Cheshire town, with the foothills of the Pennines a short train ride away, and the picturesque Peak Forest Canal even closer.

When we first moved to Romiley, we tried out a number of the local pubs, before settling on the Friendship Inn about 15 minutes’ walk from the flat we were renting. This white-painted, and attractive-looking pub was another Robinson’s house, sited on the main road through the town. It certainly lived up to its name and provided a welcoming and warm refuge, particularly during the winter months when our flat, which was electrically heated only, resembled an ice box. The licensees and their staff went out of their way to make us feel welcome, so it was quite a wrench when we had to say goodbye to yet another local.

If Greater Manchester had been difficult to find accommodation, the capital proved doubly so, and although my wife moved down to the "Smoke" first – to start her new job and also look for somewhere to live, I ended up joining her at her parent’s property in Earlsfield. Eventually we struck lucky and moved into an apartment, occupying the upstairs floor of a large, 1930’s semi-detached property in Norbury (between Croydon and Streatham).

1930’s suburbia, has never been that well endowed with public houses, and whilst there was a large, Whitbread house close by, it was a keg only place. Further afield, and well worth the walk, was the Pied Bull, on Streatham High Road, overlooking the common of the same name. This large, sprawling, landmark Victorian pub belonged to Young’s Brewery, but whilst the beer was very good (as Young’s always was before the closure of the Wandsworth Brewery), the place was too large and impersonal to have the feel of a proper local. Despite this, the Pied Bull was still worthy of a visit. Today, the pub is just called the Bull, the "Pied" part of the name having been dropped, for reasons unknown.

We only spent a couple of years in Norbury, as at the end of the 70’s our aspirations to get on the property ladder, came to fruition. Despite the previous Mrs Bailey earning a good salary, and me an acceptable one, we were still unable to afford a property in south east London, or indeed anywhere in the capital, so after looking at locations where house prices were cheaper, but still within easy commuting distance of London, we purchased a two-up, two-down Victorian terraced property in Maidstone. The house needed a lot of work to bring it up to modern standards, including a proper kitchen and modern bathroom. The necessary improvement work took a couple of years to finance and expedite, but in the meantime, there was plenty of opportunity to explore our new surroundings.

At the end of our street, and on the opposite corner, was the Dog & Gun, and imposing, red-brick two-bar local owned by Shepherd Neame. With its small and cosy lounge, plus larger and more brash public bar, the Dog & Gun quickly became our local, and we were in there most evenings. Shepherd Neame beers were much better back then, and very drinkable, which makes me wonder what on earth the brewery did to them. Shep’s also produced a cask mild, in the 70’s, and that too was well worth drinking.

Apart from selling good beer, the Dog & Gun had another claim to fame in that Barry, the pub landlord, had been a member of early 70’s pop group, Chicory Tip. The band were one of the first acts to use a synthesizer, which featured heavily on their hit, Son of my Father, and the story was that Barry’s father had financed the group and their equipment. In witness to Chicory Tip’s success, Barry’s Gold Disc for SOMF, was displayed prominently on the saloon bar wall. Inexplicably, the Dog & Gun is no longer trading, but you can get some idea what it was like, from the photo, above.

It's probably best to stop the narrative at this point, and continue another time, as six years later, I moved again, to a new town, and a new wife as well. I also need to explain the lack of contemporary photos, as with no Smartphones, and digital cameras still in their infancy, people just didn’t take photos with the frequency we do now.