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.

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.