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.

 

Is a cheap and cheerful pub lunch too much to ask for?

I've been meaning to write a post on this particular topic for quite some time now, and whilst I encounter its effects more often than I would like, for some reason I keep putting off trying to get to grips with it. It’s high time then that I broached the subject and came clean, about what has become a real bugbear of mine. I am talking about the increasingly divisive subject of an affordable pub lunch, something that many of us will have taken for granted but which, in these changing times, seems to have morphed into something completely different.

I don’t often get the chance to enjoy a pint or two at lunchtime, what with me still working three days a week, but when I do well it’s a welcome treat. That applies equally to whether it’s somewhere familiar, and close to home, or a place further afield, such as on a visit to a new town, or different location. Those who know me will be aware that, on such occasions, I like to partake of a little solid refreshment, to accompany that provided by the liquid enjoyment of a couple of pints.

It's an old habit, and one that relates to a dislike of drinking on an empty stomach. I’m not sure where that came from, although I suspect it is due to me not wishing to miss my lunch. However, leaving aside any sarcastic comments from the likes of Cooking Lager about my waistline here, for what it’s worth, is my reasoning behind this. There's probably not a lot of truth in the saying that solid food helps soak up the beer, when consumed reasonably close together. Personally, I think that it’s more the case that alcohol isn’t absorbed quite a fast when food is present.

So, all those Friday lunchtime sessions, of a few pints with one’s colleagues, probably have a lot to answer for, as none of us wanted to return to the workplace feeling half-cut, and a quick roll or sandwich at the pub, may well have helped maintain a sober demeanour. Pub-grub wasn’t that sophisticated in those days, and a toasted sandwich, a scotch egg, pork pie, or something from the hot cabinet, usually sufficed. Fast forward 40 years or so, and unless I'm out for a meal with the family, or it’s a business occasion – incredibly rare these days, I still prefer a light snack at lunchtime. Pre-filled rolls remain the best option, and whilst these are really readily available in both the Midlands and the North, the opposite applies in London and the south east.

In these parts of the country, the simple sandwich has ceased to exist, and if it is available, the description simple, no longer applies. Instead, the hungry trencherman is served a filling, between thick-cut slices of artisan bread – nothing wrong with that so far, but when its embellished with some type of greenery, ranging from few springs of rocket to a full-blown, and largely unwanted salad, complete with a fancy dressing that’s going to affect the taste of the beer, that’s a different matter. Even that is not enough for certain establishments, so why not chuck in a handful of crisps for good measure?

No thanks if I want crisps, I will buy a packet, end of! Some pubs go a stage further and insist on offering chips with a sandwich as well.  All these unwanted “extras” bump up the price, so much so that it’s not uncommon to be looking at £7 to £10 for a simple sandwich, especially in some of the posh “dining pubs” in the southeast. The trouble is, it is increasingly rare to find any pubs in this part of the country, where a simple sandwich or a filled roll is available.

Contrast this to the West Midlands, an area I have visited on two separate occasions, these past couple of years, where cheese rolls (cobs) are readily available in many pubs (often from under a plastic cover, on the bar), and priced at just £3.00 each. In addition, full-blown meals can also be obtained at bargain prices. On our tour of the Black Country, local pub man, Stafford Paul and I enjoyed a lunchtime meal of steak pie/faggots, chips, mushy peas, and gravy, for just £5.00 a head, at the Vine, at Brierley Hill, (the landmark Batham’s Brewery tap). The previous year, participants on the “Proper Day Out” in Birmingham, had a choice of two pubs to eat in, (Barton’s Arms, plus Hen & Chickens), both serving some amazing Asian food. Admittedly not as cheap as at the Vine, or in Sheffield’s Fat Cat – see below, but still at prices far lower than we encounter, in this part of the country.

The aforementioned visit to Sheffield, took place just under two years ago, and prior to meeting up with local pub connoisseur, Sheffield Hatter, and adopted son of the city, Retired Martin and I enjoyed an equally good value lunchtime meal of steak pie, with potato wedges, mushy peas, and gravy, for just £5.50, at the city’s legendary Fat Cat pub. One could expect to pay double these prices for this type of pub-grub in the south east, and in some places triple.

It's unclear why there should be this disparity between the high price of pub food in the south compared with the relatively low cost in the north, but it clearly exists, as the examples shown above, prove. What is of more concern, is the way this divergence continues in the way it does, with the two areas of the country almost in blissful ignorance of what is happening in the other. The emergence of posh, high-end dining pubs has almost certainly help to skew the disparity, although with much of my argument resting on the relatively small number of northern pubs I have experienced in recent years, I may of course, be totally wrong.

Footnote: “Drinkers and diners have expressed their sadness following the sudden closure of the Barton's Arms in Aston. The leaseholder announced it was shutting the landmark pub and restaurant on Wednesday (Jan 31) citing spiralling energy and business costs.”  Birmingham Mail 1 Feb 2024

 

 

Another day at the seaside - Bexhill and the Brickmaker's Alehouse

Last Friday I made my second visit to the coast this month, to the appropriately named Bexhill-on-Sea. I’d spent a considerable amount of time the previous evening, mulling over where to go on my Pub Friday day out. The intention was to visit a pub on CAMRA’s National Historic Pub Inventory and working on the basis of easily reached by public transport and having an historic or characterful interior worth seeing, I’d drawn up a short list of eight pubs, in destinations as diverse as Dulwich, Beckenham Junction, Chelsfield, Crawley and Bexhill-on-Sea.

I opted for the latter seaside town, with the initial aim of visiting an NI listed pub on the edge of Bexhill, called the New Inn. Whilst sorting out how to get to the pub, from Bexhill station, thoughts of another pub in the town came flooding into my head. The place I was thinking of was the Brickmaker’s Alehouse, a converted former shop and showroom for a local brick manufacturer. In November 2019, the Brickmaker’s opened its doors as Bexhill's first micro-pub, offering no fewer than five cask ales and four ciders. The drinks are served direct from casks kept in a chilled cabinet adjacent to the bar, with canned beers and ciders, also available.

Now comes the interesting part, as the Brickmaker’s is owned and run by run by two local CAMRA members, one of whom happens to be a former chairman of the local West Kent branch. This was back in the late 1980’s and, as in many areas of life, events happen, people move on and go their separate ways. In the case of both Robin and myself it was each starting a family, but there were also changes of job, house and all the other things that happen to people over the course of a lifetime.

Fast forward to the end of the last decade, when I discovered that Robin was planning to open a micro-pub in Bexhill, where he was now living. Several local member had visited the Brickmaker’s Alehouse and returned with glowing reports, but it wasn’t until late last year that I bumped into Robin again, when he turned up at the Nelson Arms, in Tonbridge, for the Kent CAMA Pub of the Year presentation. The topic of his pub came up in the conversation, and he seemed surprised, and possibly a little shocked that I hadn’t visited the Brickmaker’s, so that flash of inspiration I had the other evening, was quite appropriate.

Before writing about my visit, I ought to mention a family connection to Bexhill as, until relatively recently, Mrs PBT’s sister lived in the town, She and her late husband Brian had a large bungalow, on the edge of Bexhill that they had lovingly restored and enlarged over the years, but sadly, Eileen’s sister Lynne’s husband, passed away in March 2020, right at the beginning of the pandemic. A year or so after, Lynne moved to Uckfield to live with her youngest daughter, in an annexe attached to the side of her property.

As a family, we would normally drive down to Bexhill, for catch-up visits, so it made a refreshing change letting the train do the driving instead. The journey of just under an hour from Tonbridge, involves taking the Hasting’s service, before changing trains at St Leonard's Warrior Square, just one stop before the seaside town. I knew that the Brickmaker’s was close to the town centre, the seafront, and also Bexhill station, but with an hour or so to kill, before the pub’s scheduled 2pm opening, the question arose as what to do in the meantime?

A short stroll down to the seafront provided the answer, in the form of the De La Warr Pavilion, a grade 1 listed building, overlooking the sea. This striking, futuristic-looking building was the result of an architectural competition initiated by Herbrand Sackville, 9th Earl De La Warr, after whom the building was named. The Earl was a committed socialist and also Mayor of Bexhill, when he persuaded Bexhill council to develop the site as a public building The specification for the new building included the requirement an entertainment hall to seat at least 1,500 people; a 200-seat restaurant; a reading room; and a lounge. The competition was won by architects, Erich Mendelsohn, and Serge Chermayeff, with their striking  international design, which is one of the first major Modernist public buildings in Britain.

Construction of the De La Warr Pavilion began in January 1935, and the building was opened in December of the same year by the Duke & Duchess of York, who later became King George VI & Queen Elizabeth. Decades later, and with the privations of World War II in between, the building was starting to show serious signs of neglect. Various suggestions and campaigns for its future followed but following a £6 million grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund and the Arts Council of England, work began to restore the building and turn it into a contemporary arts centre. In October 2005, after an 18-month long extensive programme of restoration, the De La Warr Pavilion officially reopened as a contemporary arts centre, encompassing one of the largest galleries on the south coast of England.

Well worth a look around then, and with some attractive paintings of local fishermen, nice views along the coast towards Eastbourne and Beachy Head, plus that much needed comfort stop, after the train coffee had worked its way through my system, what was not to like. The De La Warr also provided welcome shelter from the cold north-easterly wind that was blowing along the coast. Somewhere amongst several boxes of old photographs, are several of me as toddler, looking out to sea, taken from inside the pavilion, and date from a visit to the south coast, with my parents. I shall dig them out, when I’ve got a spare moment, as they must be about 65 years old.

Pleased after renewing my acquaintance with this iconic, modernist building, I headed back to the Brickmaker’s Alehouse, arriving there shortly after opening time. I managed to beat a group of cyclists to the bar, after they were delayed slightly by locking up their bikes, but I still wasn’t the first customer of the day. That honour went to the gent sat looking out of the front window, who asked me if was from the police, after witnessing me taking a couple of photos of the exterior. “Do I look like a policeman?” was my response, but leaving such possibilities aside, I strolled over to the bar, after first taking a look at the casks racked up inside the glass-fronted, chill cabinet.

After perusing the Brickmaker’s website, on my journey down to Bexhill, I’d already made my mind up as to which beers to go for, so after starting with a pint of Mallinson’s American SIPA, I moved on after to a glass of Abyss, from Neptune Brewery. Both beers, one a well-hopped, straw-coloured pale ale, whilst the other a smooth, easy-drinking, oatmeal stout, were in tip-top condition, kept at just the right temperature, and served direct from the cask, by gravity, it was like being in beer heaven.

I asked joint owner Martin, who I recognised from a photo on the website, whether his partner Robin would be in later, but as he wouldn’t be, I left one of my cards with Martin, and asked if he would give it to Robin, when he next saw him. I then made myself at home, on one of the high stools-posing tables. One of the pub regulars, a chap also called Robin, asked if he could join me. I nodded that he could, and we had an interesting chat about the pub, the local area, and places between Bexhill and Tonbridge, that we both knew.

There was an interesting crowd in the pub, that afternoon, with the cyclists in particular getting stuck into their ale. Several other customers also popped in to get their carry-out containers filled, either with beer or cider. I am not always a massive fan of micro-pubs, but this one certainly seemed to be doing everything right. In 2021 the Brickmaker’s won the CAMRA “Conversion to Pub Use” national award, and in both 2022 and 2023 was local CAMRA Branch Pub of the Year, plus Cider Pub of the Year runner up. My only gripe was the lack of food at the pub, as apart from nuts and crisps, that was it.

Eridge to Groombridge - the penultimate section of the Tunbridge Wells Circular Walk

It’s been over two months since my last cross-country ramble, and to say I was getting itchy feet would be an understatement. Incessant rain and waterlogged fields, both of which would have made cross-country walking perhaps not quite impossible, but certainly down right miserable, finally came to an end as the calendar changed into April. So last Friday, after a week and a half of dry weather, it was finally time to dust off my trusty walking boots, wrap up warm and head off out, back on the trail.

The trail concerned is the Tunbridge Wells Circular Walk (TWCW), a 26-mile footpath encompassing this attractive Kenish town, that I’ve been trying to complete for over a year. It’s a trail I’d been keen on walking ever since I first heard about it from a friend, but just over two years ago, whilst enjoying a quiet pint at Larkin’s Ale House, in Cranbrook, I came across a guidebook to this circular walk. Liking what I saw, I purchased a copy with the intention of completing this walk, but not before finishing the North Downs Way.

That’s a story for another day, although to set the record straight, I finished that particular Long-Distance Footpath in October 2022. It wasn’t long after, that the weather changed for the worse, following the onset of winter. This meant postponing my attempt at the TWCW until February 2023, when I walked slightly under half of the Southborough to Pembury section of the trail. Between then, and now I completed the latter section, followed by Pembury to Frant, and then Frant to Eridge.

That latter walk took place 10 weeks ago, but further progress was stalled by two months of persistent rain which meant February and March were complete washouts. Last Friday, I picked up, from where I left off back at the start of February, by taking the No. 29 bus to Eridge Green, crossing busy A26 road, before passing the churchyard and continuing along a track to Eridge Rocks. My aim was to walk the three and a half odd miles from Eridge to Groombridge, passing on the way the impressive rocky outcrops that make up Harrison’s Rocks. Despite a much-needed dry spell at the start of April, the weather again took a turn for the worse, with several heavy downpours, mid-afternoon.

The rain occurred at the worst possible time imaginable, with the heavens opening whilst I was a third of the way across a rather large, and very open field, with nothing at all in the way of shelter. I could see the rain saturated clouds blowing across the unprotected field in waves, but with no shelter I had to just keep going. The new hat which Mrs PBT’s bought for me, kept the rain off my head, whilst the three-quarter length coat, meant most of my upper body remained dry.

I crossed the stream at bottom of field, and then continued uphill, before reaching a metalled road which took me past some rather attractive looking properties. The track then veered away to the left and downhill past the intriguingly named Pinstraw Farm, before emerging through the trees at nearby Forge Farm, into an open meadow with the Spa Valley Railway Line to the left, and the start of the ridge formed by Harrison’s Rocks to the right. These tall, impressive sandstone outcrops extend a long way following the line of the valley and are surprisingly high in places. They are popular with both novice rock scramblers, and more experienced mountaineers, including well-known climbers, such as Chris Bonningon.

The path followed the lien of the railway for some distance, before veering of to the right and into Birchden Wood. I hadn’t seen a single soul until I reached the nearby car park and toilet area, so after making use of the facilities there I headed off on the final stage of that part of the walk. Unfortunately, this turned out to be the muddiest stretch of the entire walk, as it followed a narrow path, hemmed in by a field of horses on one side, plus a row of back gardens on the other. By the time I reached the end, where the path crossed over a railway junction, my boots were caked in mud, which was especially annoying, seeing as I’d managed to avoid any mud up until that part of the walk.

Away to my right I could see Groombridge station, whilst to my left was Birchden Junction, where the line towards London once deviated away from the tracks down towards Eridge, Lewes and the south coast. It was sheer folly closing these rail-lines, particularly as they provided useful diversionary routes away from the London-Brighton mainline, but this country is infamous for poor choices and short-term decisions that made little sense at the time, and even less looking back.

I’d reached Groombridge by this point and discovered that it’s a much larger village than I realised. My plan had been t call in for a quick and well-earned pint at the Junction Inn, one of two pubs in a village which is divided unequally between Kent and Sussex. For the record, the smallest, and oldest part of Groombridge is located on the Kent side of the river Grom, and the picturesque, 16^th Century, Crown Inn, overlooking the green, is the better-known pub.

The 19^th Century Junction Inn, on the Sussex side, is more functional, and down to earth, and as it is many years since my last visit there, I was keen to pop inside and take a look. Unfortunately, I took a wrong turning and found myself heading down towards the busy B2110 Tunbridge Wells-East Grinstead road. So, with a bus due in 15 minutes, and with an hour’s wait until the next one, I headed for the nearby bus shelter to await the arrival of the 291 bus. 

Arriving back in Tunbridge Wells, at the top of the town, I dived into Fuggles where I enjoyed a very tasty and well-deserved pint of Gadd’s HPA. I exchanged a few pleasantries with Fuggles owner, Alex Grieg, before spotting Clive and Martin, two friends from CAMRA. I joined them for a pint plus a catch-up chat, that was inevitably about walking, but whilst I was tempted to stay for another, I thought it was time to be getting home, and grab a bite to eat as well. 

There is now just one section of the TWCW left to do, and that is the six mile stretch between Groombridge and Southborough. Weather and other commitments permitting, I aim to knock this section on the head, sooner rather than later. To be continued……………………..