A rare foray into clubland

A couple of weeks ago, I made a brief and, for me, extremely rare foray into the world of clubland. Those who know me will be aware of my disdain of clubs, as there is something about these places that has never appealed to me. Clubs may well be places where cheap beer is available, but they often come across as soulless places, seemingly lacking atmosphere. And yet, whilst putting this article together, I was reminded that early on in my drinking career, myself, plus a handful of sixth form pals, were regular users of a club, on the outskirts of Ashford – the town where I grew up and went to school.

I have my school friend Roy, to thank for this early association with working man’s clubs, and he was also the same individual responsible for introducing me to beer in general, and to many of Ashford’s public houses. Another former school friend was responsible for familiarising me with a large number of rural pubs, mainly to the east of Ashford and down onto Romney Marsh. This was down to the fact that we both had motor-scooters, and enjoyed heading out into the Kent countryside, exploring the many pubs in the surrounding villages, under the pretext of enjoying a game of “arrows”.

That’s a story for another time, and for now, it’s back to clubland, and specifically the club house of Houchin Aerospace, a company which manufactured parts for the aviation industry. Houchin closed in 2014, with the loss of 47 jobs, but for 70 years, their factory on the edge of Ashford had been a successful enterprise, and a major employer in the town. Roy’s mother worked for the company, and I believe his sister did as well, and it was through their connections, that us sixth former's were able to use the club.

Before going any further, a quick word about clubs and their origins in the industrial heartlands of the North of England, the Midlands and South Wales. As institutions, Working Men’s Social Clubs came into being at the tail end of the 19^th century, by and for working class people in industrial areas. The very first social club was founded in Reddish, Greater Manchester, to give workers a place to relax. As well as the sale of alcohol, food was often provided, along with games such as pool, snooker and darts. In their heyday of the 1970s, there were some 4,000 working men’s clubs in operation across Britain, providing space to congregate, communicate, celebrate and, of course, to drink beer.

WMC’s remain fixtures in local communities, more than 120 years after their foundation and are run in much the same way as they always have been. Most are affiliates of the Working Men’s Club & Institute Union or CIU, although nowadays that reference to working men has been dropped. At the current count there are 2,200 registered social clubs within the CIU, with numbers still biased towards the North and the Midlands. Working men's clubs are run by their members through a committee, usually elected annually, with each club having its own set of rules, that include the payment of an annual subscription.

Whilst anyone can join a WMC, there is still a process that prospective members must apply through, before full membership is granted. This usually involves filling out a membership form, which will then have to be seconded by two members who know and can vouch for you. Your application will then be put before the Club committee and an interview held with you. The committee can, if necessary, discipline members (common punishments being a warning, or a ban for a period) for violations. Non-members are not allowed entry unless signed in by a member. I don’t recall having to do any of these things, back in the early 70’s, although with our school friend as a fully paid-up member, and us as quite free-spending individuals, I don’t think anyone was particularly concerned.

Life moves on, and in the autumn of 1973, our quite tightly, close-knit group of friends went our own separate ways. A small number remained in Ashford, having already gained regular employment, one joined the British Airways Flight Training School, at Hamble (somewhere in Hampshire, I believe), and eventually passed out as an airline pilot, but most of us went to university, in various cities and towns, scattered across the UK. We never really got back together as a group, and I’m fairly certain that with one possible exception, none of us set foot inside the Houchins’ club again.

I was much more interested in pubs when I returned to Kent for the Christmas, Easter and summer breaks, and had also developed a growing interest in cask beer – or Real Ale. Cask was a real rarity in clubs, and whilst it was still clinging on in many pubs, especially some of the smaller and more rural ones, it was viewed as having had its day. As we know, events proved otherwise, as CAMRA’s well-thought-out, and highly effective campaign, not only managed to stem cask’s decline, but set the scene for a spectacular turn around in its fortunes.

When I returned to live in Kent, back in the late 1970’s, real ale was quite readily available, at least in local pubs. Clubs were a different matter, not that I knew of any, and it wasn’t until I settled in Tonbridge, half a decade later, that clubs once again, re-entered my consciousness. As well as an being home to an important railway junction Tonbridge was also a “print” town, with two large printing works and associated publishers, based in the town. Whitefriars’ Press were one such company and had their own WMC – the Whitefriars’s Press Club. Their spacious premises, close to the station, are no more, having gone the same way as the printing company itself, but there were still several other WMC’s based in the town.

Over the years, I must have visited most these establishments, mainly for social events, either work or family occasions, and these included Tonbridge Working Men’s Club, Constitutional Club, Royal British Legion Club along with the aforementioned Whitefriars’ Club. None of these establishments stocked cask and therefore were of little interest to me. Things slowly changed, but not as quickly as us cask lovers would have liked, and not long after the demise of the Whitefriars, the same fate befell the Working Men’s Club. There were a few bright spots along the way with several, relatively nearby clubs not just stocking the odd cask beer, bur majoring in it as well. Locally we have Tunbridge Wells Constitutional Club, and Marden Social Club, but a little further away is the Dartford Working Man’s Club, an establishment that has since become a bastion of real ale.

To bring the story up to date, a couple of weeks ago, Mrs PBT’s and I attended a family function at the Cinque Ports Club in Uckfield. Over the course of the past 3-4 years, this mid-Sussex town has become home to Eileen’s sister, plus her niece with her own extended family. This was why, on one of the wettest Sundays in a long time, that we found ourselves, at this extensive and rather rambling club, slap bang in the middle of Uckfield. When Mrs PBT’s and I turned up, looking like a couple of drowned rats, we had to be signed in, in true club fashion, but despite my initial reservations, my spirits were raised by the sight of a bank of three hand pulls on the bar, dispensing a range of Harvey’s beers (Best Bitter, Old Ale & Mild.)

The Cinque Ports Club began life as the Commercial Hotel and then the King’s Head, before later becoming a social club.  As hinted at earlier, it is quite a rambling building, with an older, inner core and a couple of more recent additions. Like most other clubs, the Cinque Ports is owned by its members and run for its members, and as well as the aforementioned, well-stocked bar, the Club provides regular live entertainment and social activities. Membership is £15 per Annum with a £10 joining fee. Over 1800 members enjoy facilities including a large function room suitable for up to 200 people, a stage, large projector screen for TV and presentations and round banqueting tables. The main bar area has three seating areas, fruit machines, three plasma screens for live sports, a pool room, plus a digital juke box updated weekly with the latest music. For the more traditional minded, there are two darts boards, plus a pool table. 

If I lived where Eileen’s sister lives, (just 15 minutes’ walk away), then I’d almost certainly become a club, as the well-kept Harvey’s alone would be the deal-maker. Clubs have certainly come on a lot since the days when my school chums and I would spend evenings drinking fizzy Courage, keg beers, in the somewhat basic surroundings of the Houchin Sports & Social Club. I make that final statement guardedly, because the UK's public houses, will always hold a special place in my heart, and that's because as the name suggests, pubs are open to everyone regardless of gender, race or religion and, most importantly, with no membership requirements either. 

 

The firm's Christmas bash, December 2025

Last Friday evening saw me heading over to Tunbridge Wells, for my company’s Christmas party. I’ve kept the identity of the venue quiet, until now, partially as a bit of a tease, but mainly because I wanted to experience the place myself, before reporting back. Tunbridge Wells is a 10-minute train ride away from Tonbridge, and despite being the larger to the two towns, TW is not as well served by rail links to other parts of the country, as its older and more historic counterpart.

Although my train departed Tonbridge on time, we were held up by a red signal at Somerhill tunnel, one of several single-track tunnels on this line which runs between Tonbridge and Hastings. There is a reason for single track working, which dated back to a number of fraudulent cost-cutting scams that took place, during construction of the line. I won’t go into details here, as I know not all readers of this blog are train buffs, but if you want to know more, then by all means,  click on this link.

Despite my late running train, I was still 20 minutes or so in advance of the 6pm kick-off so, to kill a bit of time, I called in at the recently renovated Bedford Arms, opposite the railway station.  I found to my cost that this traditional stop-off for home-coming commuters, had been changed into an establishment catering exclusively for the 18-30 crowd, although looking around, the clientele seemed almost exclusively male. 

So, plenty (too much) of testosterone floating around, but much worse than that, a video juke box set to maximum level, where you could feel the bass notes and drumbeats come crashing into your chest, whilst your ear drums were rapidly atrophying. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to some pretty loud rock concerts in my youth, including The Who and Led Zeppelin, but they were in a different league, and context, in the setting of two large stadiums, rather than that of a relatively small, town local. The Pig & Porter Apparition Stout was in good form, and I learned from the local CAMRA WhatsApp group, that the pub is quieter at lunchtimes, but my advice would be to go elsewhere if you want to enjoy a quiet pint in Tunbridge Wells.

So now for the main event, which took place at the White Bear, situated just a short stroll from the station in the heart of Tunbridge Wells and a stone’s throw from the Pantiles. Described as a stylish tavern with a sun-room terrace, the White Bear re-opened under its original name, following extensive renovations by Young & Co. I said, “original name”, because when I first knew the pub, it was called the White Bear. Whitbread, its owner at the time, closed the pub in 1985, but three years later, it re-opened as “Ruperts”. Soon after, it changed its name and layout, to “Bar Zia”. This in turn closed, and in 2007 it reopened as the "Tunbridge Wells Bar and Grill."

Pub and hotel company, plus renowned former brewery, Young's, bought the site in 2019 and took it back to its roots by renaming it the "White Bear." Prior to reopening, Young’s sent out a press release, stating, "Our understanding is that this pub was hugely popular in its original incarnation, and we hope to welcome back all the locals." The release went on to say that "The venue has been restored to its former glory by Young’s and has reopened as a quintessentially British yet modern pub under its original name.”

It was therefore with some trepidation that I entered the White Bear for the first time in 40 years. My initial observations were that the place was heaving – hardly surprising for a Friday night during h run-up to Christmas. The other observations that the interior was much larger than the one I remember, but as everything looked so different, it wasn’t an easy comparison to make. I’d already met up with a few of my colleagues outside the bar, so when the boss turned up, armed with the company credit card, we all ordered ourselves the first of many drinks of the evening.

Beer-wise, there were three hand pumps serving cask ales, but with the pump-clip for TT’s Landlord turned round, it was a choice between Young’s London Original, and Harvey’s Sussex Best. With the contract-brewed Young’s a travesty of what was once one of the finest beers in the land, it was a no-brainer for me to opt for Harvey’s. It was in good form too, but don’t ask me how I scored it, because I’ve more or less given up on beer scores. Having obtained our drinks, one of the bar staff conducted us round to an open plan area at the rear of the building, that had been allocated to our party. This area was set at a lower level, and was more or less self-contained, but in order to do justice to the pub, I’d need to return during, the hours of daylight, and at a time when the place is far less busy. Other colleagues started to drift in, and whilst not a full house, our contingent still managed to occupy four tables.

People’s food choices had been ordered several weeks in advance, and when the grub turned up it was tasty and well-presented. My main course of Pan-Fried Seabream, with creamed celeriac, Brussel tops, and samphire, whilst flavoursome and cooked to perfection, was missing something to soak up the creamy sauce, because there wasn’t a lot of substance to the creamed celeriac. Fortunately, I managed to procure some bread for a colleague and myself. Christmas pudding with cream and brandy sauce made a good desert, and by way of accompaniment, a nice glass of Port fitted the bill.

That was my only “exotic” drink of the evening, as I stuck to the Harvey’s for the rest of the time, but I did observe quite a few cocktails being ordered, mainly by the ladies – and I’m not being sexist here, at all. There was a time, when drinks at the staff Christmas bash were limited to beer, cider or wine, with spirits and/or exotic cocktails ruled out. We’ve got a new accountant, these days, as well as a new General Manager, and both seem rather more lenient (if that’s the right word), than their predecessors. All the same, I’ve noticed over many years, that many people go a little over the top with their drinks order, when there’s a “free” bar.

That aside, it was a most enjoyable evening, with good food, and good company, providing a real chance for staff to let their hair down, after what has been quite a tough year. I wasn’t too late in leaving, as I was offered a lift back to Tonbridge by our Office Supervisor, who’d been tasked with looking after a couple of Japanese colleagues. They were in the UK for a short “exchange” visit, which included an invitation to the Christmas party. They were staying in Tonbridge, at the Rose & Crown, and I’m not sure whether my colleague wanted directions, or just some companionship during the drive back, but whatever the case I was glad of a ride home to Tonbridge.

Somehow, we all managed to squeeze into her car, although as I was sitting in the front, I had plenty of leg room! The visitors were dropped off at the Rose & Crown, and it was good to see this imposing and historic, old coaching inn back in favour, with visitors from head office. Incidentally, I’d called in at this historic old inn, the day before, primarily to see what the place is like now, after having lost our custom, for several years to the two, local Premier Inns. My verdict was the Rose & Crown was fine, and from the feedback I heard from the visitors, they enjoyed their stay there too.

 

 

More reasons to shop at Morrisons

More reasons to shop at Morrisons, or so the advertising jingle goes, and whilst Morrisons is not up there amongst the market leaders in the grocery trade, it can occasionally surprise its customers. Northern-based Morrisons is the 5^th largest supermarket chain in the UK, known for its competitive pricing and commitment to sourcing British produce. Whilst not positioned as a premium supermarket, Morrisons is known for its high standards in fresh food categories like meat, fish, and vegetables, and is a favourite for those who don’t want to break the bank.

For many years, Morrisons had a presence locally, with a medium-sized store in Tunbridge Wells, next to the town’s rail station. That closed several years ago, but now the company is making something of a comeback, by setting up a number of small, one-stop-style, convenience stores. We have one of these outlets in Tonbridge, a store that was run as part of the International chain, a group that was the successor of the Home & Colonial Stores. As the name suggests, the company dated back to the days of empire. The Tonbridge International became a Gateway store and then a Somerfield store, before eventually morphing into one of the Pound Shop chains.

The latter eventually closed, as after all there’s a limit to the amount of cut-priced tat that the market can support, and this is when Morrisons stepped in. The majority of the building was demolished and then re-built as flats and apartments, to suit Tonbridge’s growing status as a dormitory town, but the ground floor unit, fronting onto the High Street, has remained as a retail unit, which is now occupied by Morrisons. With a High Street position suited to attract impulse buyers and lunchtime shoppers, this Morrisons Daily is deservedly doing very well, but imagine my surprise when the Christmas before last, I called in for some last-minute shopping and discovered the store is now selling beers from one of Britain’s most respected family brewers.

We’re talking about a range of bottled beers from Harvey & Son (Lewes) Ltd, a situation that is very unusual, because Harvey’s used to have a policy of not supplying their beers to national chains, or supermarkets. Staunchly conservative, Samuel Smith of Tadcaster, still operate such a policy, and used it as one of the USP’s that set them apart from off-licence chains, or supermarkets. I remember one of their sales managers explaining this to me, over the phone, when we first opened our own, staunchly, independent off-licence!

Fast forward to a couple of days ago, when a message on the local CAMRA Beer Social WhatsApp group, alerted me that 5 litre, metal kegs, of Harvey’s XXXX Old Ale were being sold at Tonbridge Morrison's, for the bargain price of £24.99 each. In other words, £5 per litre of this dark, and delicious, seasonal old ale! The following morning, I called in at the store, on my way to work, and grabbed one of the two kegs remaining on the shelf, along with a selection of Harvey’s bottles. 

At the till, I expressed my surprise (and pleasure) at seeing these mini kegs on sale. The person serving me, said they’d been selling quickly, and the store was looking to order in some more. Today, I just happened to call and saw they had all gone although, in their place were a number of Harvey’s Best Bitter kegs. Earlier in the week,  I mentioned the Harvey’s kegs to a work colleague, who thought that the smaller, Morrisons Daily stores operate on a franchise basis, which allows quite a bit of autonomy for managers/franchisees. I'm not sure how accurate that is, but it might explain the very welcome appearance of Harvey's beers, in one of our local supermarkets. 

I shall leave broaching the keg until a few days before Christmas, but earlier today I called in at the town's Organic Village Market, an interesting establishment that often carries an interesting range of beers. The shop is normally a good bet for Westerham Brewery bottles, and occasionally you might come across Samuel Smith's. Even rarer, are the German beers that are sometimes in stock, and today, I was even luckier, as the Organic Market had just received a shipment of beers from Bamberg. Needless to say, I bought a few, despite their £3.99 price tag. As with the Harvey's kegs, I shall be adding the German bottles to my Christmas stash. Much as I detest that corny old, crooner's song, I can safely say "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas".

     

Reflecting on a recently deceased Beer Blogger, in the tranquility of the Wheatsheaf, Bough Beech

During the run-up to Christmas, I’ve been spending a bit of time visiting pubs that I normally wouldn’t go to the trouble of frequenting. It’s all part of my scheme to visit as many pubs as possible, during 2025, and to beat last year’s total. That number was a miserly 70, significantly down on the previous year’s score of 84, but the good news is that 2025 will represent something of a record for me, with the magic one tonne (100), already passed.

There probably won’t be many opportunities now, to increase that total much further, not unless I can arrange a few pub crawls around towns that I am unfamiliar with, but numbers aren’t everything, and somewhere amongst that 100+ figure are several pubs that I haven’t been in before. A handful of these represent some of the finest establishments in the country. That brings me on to the other issue, and that is location, because after visiting many of the pubs within a 10-mile radius of Bailey Towers, I’m increasingly having to cast my net further and further away. Before doing so, I’m filling in the gaps, although perhaps that should be worded the other way round, because I’m currently ticking off the small number of public houses that so far, have escaped my clutches.

First stop then is the tiny hamlet of Bough Beech, just five minutes’ drive from my workplace at Chiddingstone Causeway, three miles to the east of Edenbridge, and five miles south west of Sevenoaks. The settlement is close to Bough Beech Reservoir, a man-made body of water used to supply drinking water to a part of West Kent and East Surrey. The Wheatsheaf is the only surviving local pub, following the closure several decades ago, of the Chequers; a pub that sadly closed it doors many years before I became acquainted with the local area.

The Wheatsheaf is a pub with a rich heritage, as evidenced by parts of the building which are reputed to originate from the 14^th century. This would have been during the reign of King Henry V, but it is a later Henry, who left more of a mark on the building, after using it as a hunting lodge. This was the tyrannical King Henry VIII, who was one of England’s most bloody and infamous kings. 

 

Today, the building is Grade 2 listed, and renovations have occasionally revealed clues about its background and its history. These clues include a rare medieval crown post, in the roof, plus a wattle-and-daub wall. In 2014, the pub underwent an extensive refurbishment by the current owner who, according to CAMRA, is a director at Westerham Brewery. The refurb revealed a number of notable oak beams, spacious inglenooks and distinct areas designed to accommodate both drinkers and diners. This is evidenced by the bar which occupies the central section of the pub, whilst the dining areas take up the spaces on either side of this area.

I called in, shortly after opening time, last Saturday, and noticed three cask ales on sale, from the bank of five handpumps.  The beers were Larkin’s Traditional, Westerham British Bulldog, plus Harvey’s Sussex Best. I was the pub’s only customer for a while, and with the log fires blazing away in the bar, as well as the left-hand dining area, the pub felt cosy and relaxing. It was certainly different to my previous visit, several years ago, when I sat out in the attractive terrace garden at the side of the pub. 

According to the Wheatsheaf’s website, produce sourced from the attached kitchen garden is often incorporated into the menu. The pub welcomes cyclists, motorcyclists, walkers (with or without dogs), horse riders, and beer bloggers! It's a different place though during the winter months when, after a brisk cross-country walk, there’s nothing better than settling down by one of the open fires at the Wheatsheaf, a pub, where even dogs receive a warm welcome. The pub interior is tastefully decorated, honouring its long history that stretches back over seven centuries. The Wheatsheaf’s careful attention to detail, makes it a wonderfully cosy spot for anything from Sunday lunch, a hearty evening meal or a few drinks on a Friday night.

Peter Edwardson aka Pub Curmudgeon 

Ending on a more sombre note, I would like to dedicate this post to the memory of fellow blogger, and dedicated pub-man, Peter Edwardson, who sadly, and quite unexpectedly, passed away at the weekend. Writing under the name of Pub Curmudgeon, Peter didn’t always live up to his name, although quite rightly, he could be particularly scathing of the big brewers, and their attempts to “improve” their tied estates.

He came across as quite a private individual, sometimes, very matter of fact, although under the right circumstances (a decent pub, and equally decent beer), he could be good company. I had the pleasure of meeting him a few times, including a fleeting visit he made to Tunbridge Wells, 10 or so years ago. However, Peter was at his best on the various pub crawls I joined him on, including Burton, Shifnal, Stockport and Macclesfield. I think that 2023, pre-Christmas meet up, in Macc, was the last time I saw him, and like the other occasions, he was good company.

"Old Mudgie", as he was affectionately known, had his own criteria for visiting pubs, but the words “solid”, “traditional” and “unspoilt” spring to mind. Like me, he wasn’t out to break any records, when it came to number of pubs visited, but he certainly had the knack of sniffing out the good ones. So, farewell fellow pub lover and beer enthusiast. I'm sure that your name will continue to crop up, when it comes to writing about days out, and pub crawls around historic pubs.

 

 

 

It's that time of year, again

It’s that strange time of year that precedes the run up to Christmas, a commercial enterprise that seems to have started whilst we were away on our late autumn, Atlantic cruise. Mrs PBT’s and I are both too long in the tooth to concern ourselves with yule-tide activity, and son Matthew isn’t overly struck on the concept, either.  Working in retail means he is exposed to the madness that is “Christmas shopping” with all the pushing and shoving associated with the frenzy of buying those “must have” gifts. By the time the main event arrives, he is as cheesed off as the rest of us, fed up to the back teeth with Christmas, and the commercialisation associated with it.

If I had my way I’d disappear to somewhere really cold, where they have lots of proper snow, and an authentic “Christmas” feel about the place, rather than endure the damp, draughty and chilly conditions of a typical 21^st century, English winter.  I sound like some old boy, sounding off in the local pub about things not being what they were, even though I’m sure every generation that comes along feels the same. It’s party season as well, with pubs and restaurants geared up for what for them is supposed to be the busiest time of the year.  My firm’s Christmas bash takes place on Friday week and is being hosted by a largish pub at the bottom end of the High Street, in Tunbridge Wells. I won’t reveal the pub yet, but it’s an old established hostelry that has reverted to its original name, after years of trading under a series of daft names, that some trendy, pub company executive thought would appeal to the local “yoof”.

That depends, of course, on whether supplies of potable water have been restored to the spa town, or not, because as many of you will know, Tunbridge Wells has been making national headlines recently, for all the wrong reasons. Local residents have been without water, drinking or otherwise, for the best part of a week due to what can only be described as a “cock-up” of biblical proportions at the local treatment works. There are already reports of pubs and restaurants cancelling bookings, due to the water shortage, at what should be the busiest, and most lucrative time of the year. South East Water are the company behind this fiasco, and I can certainly empathise with residents of our neighbouring town, having experienced a similar shortage earlier in the year. Fortunately, that particular outage, only lasted a couple of days, but it still brought home how dependent we all are on having a clean and reliable source of water, piped into our homes.

I’ve spent much of the day catching up with various outstanding tasks, including some minor maintenance on my car, but the main job I had was renewing my UK passport. Fortunately, passport renewals can be carried out online, and this includes uploading a current photo of oneself. Snappy Snaps, photo shop have simplified this process, by providing a unique code, that links to recent photos taken in the store. In my case, this was last week and have to say that the end result is far superior to those provided by the photo booths we had to huddle in, back in the day. The booths were a regular feature in shopping centres and station concourses, and probably still are to a certain extent.

There is also no need now, to have one’s photo verified by an “upstanding member” of society, such as a teacher, church minister, doctor or similar profession. Quite how these individuals were considered more “upstanding” than us lesser mortals is beyond me, but I am quite glad to see the end of a requirement that really does belong in Britain’s class-ridden past. I lost out on 6 months validity on the passport I am surrendering, thanks to the shenanigans of Brexit, because since that inglorious day, the validity of passports, for non-EU citizens, is a strict 10 years from date of issue. 

To illustrate this point, my current document was issued in Apil 2016 but doesn’t actually expire until December 2026. That additional seven-month period is no longer valid, after the UK deliberately made itself a “third country”. I already knew this, but it was pointed out, when I checked in at Southampton, six weeks ago, prior to boarding our cruise ship. Thanks, Boris, you great big, useless lump of lard, and the same applies to all the other weaselly, Brexit-backing creeps, such as Michael Gove, Jacob Rees-Mogg, John Redwood etc.

I had another disappointment earlier today, although not quite in the same league. Having submitted my online application, I had a bit of time to spare, prior to collecting Mrs PBT’s from her place of work. I had it in mind to visit the historic, George & Dragon, at Speldhurst. My last visit has been in August 2024, whilst completing the final stretch of the Tunbridge Wells Circular Walk. There have been a number of changes since then, the most noteworthy being ownership of the pub returning to the Sankey family. This was the culmination of a story dating back 65 years, when the grandparents of current owner, Matthew Sankey, bought this ancient old inn.

You can read the rest of the story here, but it’s worth knowing that Matthew Sankey also runs a restaurant-cum-pub, called Sankey’s, at the top of Mount Ephraim, in Tunbridge Wells. I was keen to see how things were progressing at the George & Dragon, following its return to family ownership, and with three-quarters of an hour to spare, it seemed the ideal opportunity. I hadn’t banked on being unable to park the car though, but after a fruitless drive around, I gave up on the idea. Too many large vehicles seemed the problem, but regrettably I too am guilty of this, having bought an SUV a couple of years ago. Much easier to slide in and out of, than a standard saloon, especially for Mrs PBT’s who has a few mobility issues, but not much good when it comes to squeezing in and out of tight places.

Sadly, I had the abort the idea, but on the drive back to Eileen’s work place, I thought of at least five former pubs in nearby Southborough, all of which are now sadly closed. All of these closures pre-date COVID and are just signs of the demise of the pub trade across the country. I shall make another attempt to visit the George & Dragon, in the not-too-distant future, but the fact that the car park was full, is proof that the pub is doing alright, now it is back in family ownership.   

 

Lucky Larkin's

After returning to the UK last Thursday afternoon, following our two-week absence, I was keen to get back to enjoying some proper English ale. I was also keen to track down some Larkin’s Porter, especially after my success, a month or so ago in coming across Harvey’s XXXX Old Ale. Both these beers are seasonal beers, whose availability is restricted to the winter months, although Harvey’s tend to “stretch” that period of sale from the start of October, right through into late March

After managing to “scoop” some XXXX Old Ale, I was left wondering would I be able to do the same with the Larkin’s Porter. The late Bob Dockerty, who was Larkin’s founder, head-brewer and proprietor, began the tradition of waiting until Bonfire Night before releasing the first batch of the season’s porter. For 30 years or more, this practice was quite strictly observed, with the majority of pubs stocking the beer, content to follow the November 5^th  rule, although since Bob’s passing, three years ago, this edict appeared to have become less strict. Bob always claimed that the beer was all the better after undergoing a six-week maturation period in cask. It is certainly well-conditioned, and pours with a really thick, creamy head.

With this in mind I was wondering when I would get the chance of enjoying my first glass(es) of porter, especially as I would be out of the country, from the last week in October through to the first weeks in November. Well-known beer-café Fuggle's have, for the past couple of years, taken up the mantle for promoting Larkin’s Porter, with both their Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells outlets holding a launch evening for the beer on 31^st October, a week earlier than previously. So, with Halloween taking place whilst I was away, my concern was that by the time I returned, stocks at both Fuggle’s outlets would be exhausted.

On Friday, I checked Fuggle’s Tonbridge website and was pleasantly surprised to discover the beer still on sale, and despite the heavy head cold that both Eileen and I seem to have picked up onboard ship, I made an excuse to head down into Tonbridge. I was relieved to find the pump clip advertising the porter, still in place, so I ordered a pint (£5.10, and worth every penny). I expressed my surprise to the bar manager that the porter was still on sale, and he replied this was because both Fuggle’s outlets had doubled up on their order from last year.

 

Suffice to say I really enjoyed my pint of this excellent winter beer, secure in the knowledge that it was as fine a beer as ever. Dark and full-bodied and brewed from a grist that includes plenty of chocolate and crystal malts, Larkin’s Porter has a rich, full mouth feel, with plenty of bitterness to match the lush sweetness of the malts. At a strength of 5.2%, it is a beer for savouring, rather than swilling. I can feel smug and content now, secure in the knowledge that this harbinger of winter is freely on sale, ready to ward off the worst that winter can throw against us. (It’s been unseasonably warm, since my return last week!)

I’m not sure this is still the case, but Larkin’s only used to produce just two brews of this superb beer each year: one in mid-September, and the other towards the end of  November. Following brewing and primary fermentation, each brew is allowed to mature, in cask, for a minimum period of six weeks before it is released to trade, and I am presuming here that this practice has not changed. If you’re lucky enough to come across a pub selling this excellent beer, than do give it a try, as I’m sure you won’t regret it.

Back on dry land

A quick update, shortly after 7am this morning our cruise ship Queen Victoria, arrived back at her home port of Southampton, bringing to an end our 13-night expedition into the Atlantic, to the Azores, Madeira, Portugal and Spain. We disembarked the ship shortly after 8am, and amid the hustle and bustle of the baggage shed, located our several suitcases, most of which belonged to my good lady wife! 

 Then, after spreading them across two luggage trolleys, pushed them across to the car parking area. After retrieving the keys from the office, we loaded up the car and set off on the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Tonbridge. This was a pleasant and relatively easy drive compared with a number of our fellow cruisers, some of whom faced journeys back to Wales, the North East and even Scotland – not the best way to finish a holiday!

Arriving that early in the morning meant hitting peak rush hour traffic in Southampton, but unlike previous occasions, we didn’t get lost. Even so, we took a slightly different route out of the city, which took us to the western edge of Southampton before joining the M27 and heading steadily east. Leaving Southampton behind, we continued along the motorway, past the turn-off for Portsmouth and then onto the A27, past Brighton and then, through some spectacular downland scenery to Lewes. The early start meant skipping breakfast, a comfort we both had become used to during the cruise, but I said to Eileen that we’d keep going and get a few miles under our belts, before stopping for a bite to eat.

A comfort stop was of greater importance than food, particularly for me, so at Lewes, we turned onto the A26 towards Tonbridge, and pulled in at the large Tesco's superstore, which we knew would have decent public toilets. We also picked up a few groceries to see us into the weekend, along with a “meal-deal” each, to act as breakfast! Tesco’s was absolutely rammed, but then I recalled that the previous night had been November 5^th which of course meant Lewes would be celebrating the event with its famous, and memorable Bonfire Night displays. If you've ever been to Lewes Bonfire Night, then you know it is certainly a celebration to remember, but it's also important to reflect that the event is primarily for local people. It involves the coming together of Lewes’s six Bonfire Societies, in a parade to the town’s War Memorial, at the top of the town, where respects are paid to the dead of two world wars and subsequent conflicts, before the bonfire boys and girls, as they like to call themselves, peel off to their own separate bonfire celebrations.

So, this morning, the worthy citizens of Lewes were busy stocking up after the previous night’s merry making. The vast majority of businesses in the town, tend to close mid-afternoon to allow staff time to head off, and celebrate with whichever Bonfire Society they belong to, either that or just give them time to get home safely, and tucked up indoors, away from the mayhem taking place in the streets outside. Last year’s event attracted around 40,000 visitors, quite a number to be packed into the confines of the town’s narrow streets. Driving out of Lewes this morning, in the direction of Tunbridge Wells, there were countless signs lining the roads, prohibiting people from parking on verges, or otherwise blocking routes into the town, and these notices extended for several miles. In recognition of these celebrations, I shall be cracking open a bottle of Harvey’s Bonfire Boy, a dark amber beer with a full malty, caramelised, bitter aftertaste, set against a superbly smoky background. This 5.8% ABV beer is brewed annually, to celebrate Lewes’s Bonfire Night festivities.

Getting back to the cruise, if I've counted correctly, it was the 9^th voyage that we’ve undertaken, and until this one, we’ve always been lucky with the weather. That luck of course, had to come to an end, and after a three-day run down from Southampton, down to the Azores, sea conditions turned decidedly choppy, stirred up by an increasingly strong north-westerly wind. Mrs PBT’s who's always boasted about the strength of her sea legs, and how she's spent numerous occasions on cross channel ferries, when there was only her and the chief steward still standing, at the bar and necking back the shots, found herself feeling under the weather. She wasn't physically sick, although, she felt queasy enough to have to lie down. Fortunately, the anti-seasickness tablets she brought with her, did the trick, but that episode rather set the scene on a number of other weather-related occasions during the voyage.

The night before we were due to call at our first destination – Praia da Vitoria, the main settlement on Terceira, the second largest island in the Azores, the captain warned that we might have difficulty in docking. The following morning his worst fears were confirmed and although he made a couple of attempts, including one that involved approaching the harbour from a different angle, his effects were to no avail, and we were forced to abandon our visit to that particular island. 

The ship carried onto San Miguel, the largest of the nine habitable islands that make up the Azores. We docked at the capital Ponta del Garda, shortly after 9pm, which was ten hours or so ahead of our scheduled arrival time.  By way of compensation, this did allow everyone who wished to disembark, to do so, and take a look around the town.Whilst tempted Mrs PBT's, protective as ever, wasn't keen for me to go wandering around on my own - something about pirates or press gangs! I’m exaggerating, and to be fair we discovered the following morning, that there weren’t many bars, or other places of refreshment, close to the seafront. However, I bet that an experienced pub man, like myself, could have found somewhere, especially after four days stuck at sea.  

Unfortunately, Praia da Vitoria wasn't the only port that we missed on the cruise, and once again adverse weather played a part. The second destination we missed was the Spanish city of Vigo, situated fairly close to the most northerly and most westerly point of the Iberian peninsula. Known to mariners, and weather watchers as Cape Finisterre, this is the point where the waters of the Bay of Biscay meet those of the north Atlantic, making this area one that is renowned for storms. Vigo was the final port of call on the cruise and was a destination we’d allocated to stock up on Spanish goodies, both for ourselves and for friends, family and work colleagues back home. We’d stopped at the city on a previous cruise, but as that day was a Sunday, the majority of shops were shut. Tuesday would be different, and as we’d previously clocked the location of Vigo’s main shopping area, sited within easy walking distance of the harbour.

As we sailed away the previous evening from the Portuguese port of Leixões – docking point for those wishing to visit Oporto, Eileen suggested we go up on deck, watch the sail away and listen to the captain's announcement. We were both slightly perturbed because there was a woman, who we’d bumped into a few times, who seemed intent on spreading doom and gloom (she worked a doctor’s receptionist, if that’s a clue to her character!). She’d heard, although she didn’t reveal the sourced of her information, that adverse weather was forecast and we might not be able to dock at Vigo. I didn't say to anything to her face, but after she’d left, I said to Eileen that she was talking absolute b*llocks.

I made that judgement in the light of the warm, bright, calm and sunny day we’d enjoyed at Leixões. Unfortunately, I was forced to eat my words, because once the ship’s captain had gone through the formalities of everyone being back on board and other stuff related to our departure, he mentioned the prospect of a severe storm that would impact on our schedule for the next few days. This was due to an area of deep low pressure that was moving up from the south, bringing with it strong winds and heavy rain. This could impact the next day’s departure from Vigo and leave us exposed off the coast of Cape Finisterre.

His plan was to miss out our final port (boo, hiss), and to head off, at high speed, towards Biscay, thereby remaining ahead of the storm. He added that the winds associated with this gathering low pressure area, might assist our progress north, and keep us clear of the worst effects of the storm. You can imagine this decision wasn’t universally popular, especially as it proved the harbinger of doom right, but onboard a ship, the captain’s word is final, as he or she is responsible for the safety and well-being of all on board – passengers, crew and even the ship itself. 

The next day I was travelling down in the lift with a group of other passengers, when the captain entered on the next floor. Someone asked him what progress we were making, and “Very good”, came the reply. He said that he felt vindicated in taking the position he had, especially as we were continuing to outrun the storm. He added that the strong fore winds associated with the depression, were helping the ship’s progress, and in effect we were steaming along partially for free, as the winds continued propelling us in the direction we wanted to go.

So, there we have it, two destinations missed due to poor weather conditions, but no adverse effects on the ship, passengers or crew. On the plus side those additional two sea days were just fine just for, reading, walking about the ship, attending a lecture or for just generally chilling out. As well as being quite bracing at times, the sea air can be surprisingly relaxing, and when tucked up in bed, in one’s cabin, the motion of the ship, as it rocks gently from side to side, has the effect of lulling one to sleep. Leaving our voyage until late October - early November was possibly asking for trouble, but you win some and you also lose some of the time as well. It was still a very relaxing and most enjoyable holiday, and at the end of the day, that’s all you can really wish for.