Good beer at the Wyndham, followed by "piegate" at the Wig & Quill

Continuing the account of my recent visit to Salisbury, you left me, in the previous post, at the legendary Wyndham Arms, the original home of the Hop Back brewery. Capacity constraints at the pub led to the brewery relocating to an industrial unit in Downton, just to the south of Salisbury, in 1992. This left the Wyndham Arms free to concentrating on serving Hop Back beers at their best, to beer lovers from both near and far, drawn to this pleasant, back street local, just a short walk from the centre of Salisbury. 

I had planned on a bite to eat at the Wyndham Arms but looking on the pub’s website, I noticed food was not available, so lunch would have to wait. The main entrance door to the pub, located at the corner of the building, led into a small lobby which opened up into the bar area, and it was here in front of the bar, that the pub regulars were gathered. I suppose you expect that in a local, but it did mean I wasn't able to take the photos I would perhaps normally do. My son likes to chastise me for snapping away with my camera phone, especially in the presence of others, so despite the friendliness of the locals I did feel uncomfortable at doing so. It also seems rather geeky at times, so apologies for the lack of interior photos.

Apart from the obvious Summer Lightning, there were several other Hop Back beers on sale, and the one I went for was a pint of GFB. These letters are an acronym for Gilbert's First Brew, John Gilbert being the pioneering brewer who set up Hop Back at the Wyndham Arms, back in 1986. This was after cutting his teeth by running a couple of breweries in southwest London (Battersea and Brixton). GFB is brewed to a sensible strength of just 3.4% abv, and is like a slimmed down, session strength version of Summer Lightning. My well-presented and well-conditioned pint certainly slipped down a treat. Hop Back run eight other pubs, scattered across Wiltshire and Hampshire with the odd outpost further afield (Sultan – Wimbledon, and Archer – Staffordshire). They also have another pub in Salisbury – the Duck Inn. 

I took my pint of GFB, along with a packet of crisps, into the small, cosy snug room, just off the bar. It also enabled me to respond to an email from work, that required my immediate attention – boring! Whilst I was tempted to stay for another beer, I had several other pubs to visit, one of which would also provide my stomach with something more substantial than the bowl of cereal, I’d consumed, several hours previously. However, had Hop Back’s excellent Entire Stout been available, I may well have stayed for a glass of it.

Consequently, I departed the pub, but not before returning my glass to the bar and engaging in a brief chat, with a couple of the regulars. They were keen to know whether I had I enjoyed my stay, and why wasn’t I stopping. I explained I was in Salisbury on a brief visit and had other pubs to visit. They appreciated this and quickly came up with a number of suggestions. One of these was the Haunch of Venison, an obvious choice perhaps, and one already on my list. It’s the oldest pub in Salisbury, and from the descriptions I’d read, one definitely worth visiting.

Upon leaving the Wyndham Arms, I headed off back into the city centre, passing through a park whilst enjoying the pleasant May sunshine. I was making for New Street which runs from east to west, intersecting at one point with Salisbury High Street. There were two pubs in the street that I'd pencilled in as possible candidates for lunch. The first one was a Hall & Woodhouse house, called the New Inn, where the food menu looked particularly good, whilst the was a Wadworth pub, called the Wig & Quill, and the direction I had just walked from brought me to this hostelry, first.

After admiring the attractive exterior of this historic pub that dates back to the 14^th Century, and perusing the menu displayed on the wall, outside, I decided to eat there, as one of the choices was “Pie of the Day.” I stepped inside and was surprised to find the place relatively quiet, which seemed odd for a Friday lunchtime. Adorning the bar counter was a bank of hand pumps, dispensing a range of Wadworth beers, but the pump clip for Henry’s IPA had been turned round; a pity as that was the beer I was looking forward to.

You may be surprised to learn that after 50 years chasing around the country, and enjoying beers in many different locations, this visit to the Wig & Quill represented the first time I'd set foot in a Wadworth tied house. I’ve obviously drunk many pints of 6X, over the years, although Wadworth seem to be pushing Horizon in the free-trade these days, at the possible expense of their best-known cask ale. The other beer on tap at the Wig & Quill, was Swordfish, an unusual “Rum infused ale.” I played it safe and went for a pint of 6X, which was full-bodied, malty and whilst not quite on top form, was still very drinkable.

It's worth mentioning briefly, that the pub is divided into three drinking areas, with oak beams aplenty, overhead and a number of open fires to warm customers in the winter. There was no need for these the other Friday and given the fine weather I took my beer outside into the attractive and secluded, walled garden at the rear of the building, but not before placing my food order. I, of course opted for pie of the day, after being told that it was Beef and Guinness. 

It was very pleasant sitting outside, waiting for my food to arrive, and the only other person present was a lady of slightly advanced years, who was enjoying a glass of lager, whilst eating what were obviously her own sandwiches. Perhaps she knew something about the quality of the food that I didn't, although I would soon find that out! It took slightly longer than anticipated for my meal to be served, which was a little surprising given there was only a handful of customers in the pub. When the pie arrived at my table, I was warned that it was very hot, although I took this as a good sign. On closer inspection though, the pastry casing did look quite dark in places, particularly around the crimping, an appearance I would subsequently describe as “well-done, bordering on burnt.”

On cutting through the rather hard pastry, and into the pie, I was surprised to find the meat content dry, stringy and definitely overcooked. The complete absence of any “gravy” within the pie provided further cause for concern. Trying some of the beef inside confirmed it was over-cooked, as the meat was charred at the margins, stringy, in both appearance and texture, and certainly not the tasty, pleasant, and mouthwatering pie I was expecting and looking forward to. I brought this to the attention of a member of staff, who agreed that the pie looked both over-cooked and dried out. He went off to fetch the chef, who in turn came over, took a look at the food on my plate and said that the pie was perhaps drier that it should have been.

He offered me a partial refund, but not the full refund I was expecting, but that turned out to be a problem, because he claimed the pub’s new till system – recently installed by Wadworth’s, was not set up to process refunds. I found this strange, as I had paid by card, but after talking to the lady behind the bar, who had originally served me, the chef offered me a voucher instead. I explained that I was just visiting Salisbury and didn’t live locally.  He seemed rather surprised when I said I had travelled across from Kent that morning, although I'm not sure why, and was unlikely to be returning in the near future.

After chatting to his colleague, I was offered a partial refund, which amounted to a cash payment of £3.75. I had paid £15 for the meal, so I don’t know how that figure was arrived at. I stated at the time that this wasn’t satisfactory, but mine host didn’t seem open to further negotiation. Not wishing to cause a fuss, in front of other customers in the bar, I pocketed the token payment and left the pub, but have since emailed Wadworth expressing my dissatisfaction, particularly at the way my complaint was handled.

I am currently awaiting a reply, and whilst like most Brits I don’t like making a fuss, there comes a time when such action is necessary.  The experience didn’t overshadow what was a most enjoyable visit to Salisbury, although it obviously took the shine off the pub lunch I'd been looking forward to. A look at reviews of the Wig & Quill on Tripadvisor, something I seldom do, revealed the pub to be something of a “Marmite” establishment, as some of the comments were glowing, whilst others seemed to match my own experience.

There’s one more pub to go, along with the cultural bit, and I will, of course, keep people updated about "piegate", as soon as I hear back from the brewery, or even the pub itself.

 

Salisbury re-visited

As many of you will probably have gathered, I've been spending some of the free time between my part time job and family commitments along with working on house and garden projects. Every now and then I like to take a trip out somewhere further afield, although the furthest I've managed this year, was a visit to the Black Country. However, if you've read the posts I wrote, you'll know it was one of the best trips so far as classic pubs, good beer and equally good company are concerned, that I've enjoyed for a long time. I've been meaning to travel further north with perhaps a visit to Leeds or even Newcastle, but with a lot going on the home front at the moment, I decided upon somewhere closer to home, and with less travailing involved.

Salisbury fitted the bill nicely, as it's a city I’d been wanting to visit for a long time. Son Matthew had also been keen on a trip there, although the cost of the train fare, put him off somewhat, (unlike me, he doesn't have a rail card.) I too couldn't understand the inflated price of traveling there by train, so I looked at the alternative, cross-country route via Redhill, Guildford, and Woking. It wasn’t quite half price, but still promised a considerable saving by not traveling via London. Our capital city really is a stumbling block when it comes to long distance train travel, as any journeys passing through London, not only tend to be more expensive but also involve the hassle of traveling across the metropolis to another main line terminus.

Unfortunately, the first available ticket on the cross-country route, where my railcard was valid, meant not reaching Salisbury until after 1pm - an arrival time not particularly conducive to exploring the city. So, despite the additional cost, I chose the London route, and after hopping on the 09:37 train from Tonbridge, there was a possibility of connecting with 10:20 train from Waterloo. It was going to be tight, but the train halting for a few minutes at a red signal, just outside Hither Green station, was sufficient to throw that idea out the window. With hindsight it would have been tight anyway, because despite walking at a fast pace, it still took 5 minutes to walk from Waterloo East to the mainline station. Once there, I was then faced with a choice of 24 platforms, along with hordes of people milling around all over the concourse.  Consequently the 10:20 train was unfortunately beyond me.

No matter, I boarded the 10:50 South West Trains service to Salisbury and settled down to enjoy the journey. Trains on this line are diesel operated, as the electrified lines end at Basingstoke. Back in the 1930s the Southern Railway embarked on an ambitious programme to eventually electrify all their lines, and certainly the mainline ones, but the intervention of the Second World War, the austerity that followed, the nationalisation and then privatisation of the railways, meant some of this work never happened. None of this affected my journey, even though diesel powered trains are rather noisier than their electric counterparts, but I thought I'd throw in that little snippet of information for your entertainment.

As the train gathered speed on its journey through south London suburbia and into the pleasant countryside of Surrey and Hampshire, I was reminded that this would be my first visit to Salisbury since stopping there as a 17-year-old schoolboy on route to Cornwall. I was with a party of fellow sixth form geography/geology students traveling to St Austell for a field studies course. With much of the UK’s motorway network still to be built, our charted coach followed a south-westerly cross-country route, making a welcome stop in Salisbury.

This gave the driver a break, and afforded teachers and pupils the chance to stretch their legs. A small group of us decided to stretch our legs in the direction of the nearest pub, which deep-down I knew would be a mistake. There was nothing wrong with the pub or the beer, but traveling the next stage of the journey, whilst nursing a full bladder, wasn’t exactly a bundle of fun! However, when you're young, buoyed up by the camaraderie of your schoolmates, and looking forward to the prospect of a week away from home, stopping for a pint seemed the most natural thing in the world.

That was 50 or so years ago, and I've no idea of which pub we stopped in, or what beer it sold - I didn't take an awful lot of notice about such things in those days, but it wasn't far from the coach stop, and I vaguely remember walking through some picturesque narrow streets to get back to the coach. Now, half a century on from that brief stop in Salisbury, I watched through the carriage window with a growing sense of excitement as the train pulled into the station. That was the end of the line, as far as that service was concerned, although some trains continue on to Exeter St Davids. Apparently, the line between Salisbury and Exeter is mainly single track, with passing loops of course. That's a hard fact to fathom for a mainline, and probably an unwanted hangover from years of penny pinching by British Rail and substantial under investment by successive governments.

As the train disgorged its passengers onto the platform, and out of the station, I made my way into centre of Salisbury using a map I’d downloaded and printed off. I attempted to locate the Tourist Information Centre but despite a number of signposts pointing the way, I still managed to miss it. For some reason my family take the mickey out of me because I invariably head to the nearest TIC, whenever I’m in an unfamiliar town, but the family forget they are an invaluable source of local information, as well as a decent, and normally free, street map.

I had a brief look around, primarily to get my bearings, but I did see the historic Guildhall, along with several other historic places of interest. I of course planned to visit the city’s majestic cathedral, with its 404-foot-high spire, but the cultural side could wait until later, as first I had a number of pubs to visit.  The first hostelry on the list, was also the one that was furthest away, but it’s all relative, and the Wyndham Arms was only 15 minutes’ walk away. This legendary pub is the original home of the equally legendary Hop Back Brewery, which in 1987 commenced brewing a distinctive range of pale, hoppy beers, including the award-winning Summer Lightning. The latter was one of the first pale coloured, golden bitters to entice and excite the taste buds of local drinkers, and the beer continues to be brewed to this day.

It didn’t take me long to find the pub, and it was one that I recognised because back in the mid-90’s, whilst on the drive home from a holiday in Dorset, the Bailey family drove past the Wyndham Arms, with me at the wheel, and wife, small child, family dog plus a car full of luggage. We’d driven up from our rented cottage, just outside Blandford Forum, and were taking the A36 ring road around Salisbury, as we headed north towards the A303. I don’t think that a drive past counts as a visit, although if it does that brief encounter with the city, represented my second visit to Salisbury.

I was sorely tempted to stop, on that occasion, although as I noticed the other day, it’s not that easy, due to railings separating the Victorian streets from the parallel A36 ring road (Churchill way). Mrs PBT’s wouldn’t have been that impressed either, what with a small boy and boisterous dog in tow, but some 30 years after that sighting of the Wyndham Arms, I was physically able to set foot in the place. We’ll leave the narrative here, for the time being, and continue with the second part, in a few days’ time.

 

Cask - the real story of Britain's unique beer culture, by Des de Moor

Earlier in the week I finally finished reading Cask - the story of Britain’s Unique Beer Culture. Researched and written by top beer writer Des de Moor, and published by CAMRA Books – hardly surprising, given its subject matter, Des’s book sets out to be the definitive work on the complex subject that is cask conditioned ale. Along the way the author takes a look at the ingredients and brewing processes that go into the beer which CAMRA likes to describe as, the “pinnacle of the Brewers art,” along with the cellar practices associated with looking after it. That latter statement is rather a bold one for CAMRA to be making but given that cask ale is the raison d'être for the campaign’s very existence, and the group’s undoubted success over the last half century, in saving this uniquely British type of beer, it's understandable that they should do so.

Before going any further, I must confess that I’m not the best book reviewer in the world, because I lack the dedication and highly organised mind necessary to complete the task, and even if this wasn’t the case, it’s difficult to remain completely objective especially given such a complex subject as cask. These days, I rarely read reviews prior to getting stuck into the main body of the book, and whilst this particularly applies to novels and other fictional works, it also holds true with a publication such as this. With hindsight, I did read two reviews of “Cask,” but in mitigation they were both written by bloggers who I happen to know, and whose views, by and large, I respect. So, for two thoughtful and unbiased write-ups of Des’s book, please see the links here to Tandleman and Ed Wray, both of whom seemed to get to the crux of the matter  about what the author is trying to say.

On a baking hot August day, in the late summer of 2022, I joined a tour of Hukins Hops, at their Haffenden Farm home, near Tenterden. The event was organised by Dom Bowcutt from UK Brewery Tours, who not arranged the visit but also and acted as our guide. There were several people I knew on that tour, including writer Bryan Betts, who sadly passed away at the beginning of February this year. Also present were two other writers whom I had only met on a couple of previous occasions. One was David Jesudason, author of the award-winning "Desi Pubs" and the other was Des de Moor. The latter’s 2012 CAMRA Guide to London’s Best Beer, Pubs & Bars, whilst a little out of date now, certainly opened many people’s eyes to the diverse and vibrant beer scene that had grown up in the capital, so CAMRA’s decision to commission Des to write the definitive book on Cask, came as no surprise.

Extending the name-dropping theme a bit further, I’d met Des previously at a Beer Writers Guild event a few summer’s previously, so after he explained to the rest of our small group, that he’d come along to Hukins Hops, as part of research for his forthcoming book on Cask, everything clicked into place. “Nice work, if you can get it,” I thought but after reading the book for myself, I realised that Des must have spent countless hours, days and weeks gathering research material, on the subject, as well as tracking down the right people to speak to, and interview. Perhaps, not such nice work, after all?

A year later, and just in time for the all-important Christmas book market, Des’ magnum opus hit the bookshops and on-line retailers. Now, after treating myself to a copy, and then spending much longer reading it than I’d originally intended, I have to say that this meticulously researched, and well written publication is a real labour of love. It’s almost certainly the definitive book on cask conditioned beer, or "real ale" as CAMRA still like to call it, but that doesn’t mean it is easy to read, and from a casual readers point of view, the book is far too long.

In fact, even a confirmed beer geek like me found it hard going at times, especially as it makes the same mistake that virtually all authors who write about beer make, which is to go right back to basics, when there really is no need to. I've read countless books on beer, each taking an in depth look at the ingredients that go into producing glass of beer and the brewing process behind it. Consequently, I could tell you everything you need to know about malted barley, hops, and pure water for brewing. I could go further by describing in some detail the various stages of mashing, boiling, cooling, fermentation, racking, maturation, clarification and finally drinking. The last thing I needed to read then, was yet another in depth review of brewing.

What I did need to read was what goes on in the pub cellar, once the beer has been delivered from the brewery. I knew quite a lot of this, of course, having run my own off-licence selling cask beer, by the pint, for customers to take away and drink at home, and it is here that Des’s book comes into its own. It is also here that many of the problems associated with keeping cask ale are laid bare, and the means by which they are overcome, are laid out in full. The main problem, and the one which refuses to go away, is that of spoilage, because once broached a cask should ideally only be on service for three days, although with some care that can be extended by a further day or so.

The fact that it took me such a long time to read the book, meant there were topics and areas that I'd forgotten about, and yet somehow Des manages to not only cover them in detail, but weaves them into the main thread of the narrative. Despite all this there is one area that where no satisfactory explanation is put forward, and this is why did the rest of the beer drinking world ditch cask conditioning and opt for filtration to clear their beers and CO2 gas to dispense them? That’s if cask conditioning was that common in the rest of the world, in the first place. Pasteurisation is often involved as well, and again this process is incompatible with cask conditioning.

These issues aside Cask is still a very knowledgeable, interesting, and entertaining read, that is so packed with facts, comparisons, and derivative ideas, that it's hard to single out a single section that sums up the intriguing history of this complex beer. You’ll understand then if I won't even attempt to produce a synopsis of the book. I could recommend you buy a copy, regardless of however long it does take to read, adding if you only ever read one book on British beer, then this is it.

The proviso to this, is only do so if you’re a dedicated "beer geek" not just because, as stated earlier, Des’s book is hard going at times, but more so for the simple truth that, despite what the author claims, Cask is a dedicated piece of work for the real beer enthusiast, rather than the casual reader. I say this, without wishing to come across as elitist, or as a "beer snob", but this book really is a serious publication and whilst those wishing to learn more about what Des describes as "Britain’s greatest gift to the world of beer," will undoubtedly do so, they might have to pick their way through lots of peripheral stuff, in order to do so.

Finally, a couple of points to conclude this review. This book is well illustrated throughout, as we have come to expect from CAMRA Books, so there are plenty of photos, reproductions of old drawings and prints, alongside various tables and diagrams. These illustrations are both timely and relevant, and help break up the text

The other point goes back to the name dropping theme, towards the beginning of the post, and involves yours truly. In the chapter on cellaring & dispense, Des refers to my blog, and a post I wrote, back in 2013, where I quoted from a 1966 book on Kent Pubs, in my possession. The licensee, of a long-closed Kentish pub, told the book's author, "That the secret of keeping beer and ale,is to order it in advance, so it can lay for two weeks before you tap it." You can read that post, here.

 

 

A green-fingered distraction

You’ve probably noticed that I haven’t been posting much recently. There’s a reason for this as I’ve been tied up with other things, mainly outdoor activities revolving around our garden. After such a wet start to the year, like many other gardeners, I’m behind with numerous activities, and with Thursday’s weather finally turning bright and warm, I’ve spent the past four days playing catch up. Now there’s need to think I'm that much of a keen gardener, even though I’ve always enjoyed growing things, and spending time outdoors. I’ve nearly completed a rockery, which is my little gift to Mrs PBT’s, although on a more sombre note this area will also form the last resting place of her late brother’s ashes.

It’s ironic really, because it was her brother David who “gifted” us the majority of the large chunks of sandstone, that have lain half buried at the bottom of the garden, these past 20 years or more. David, at the time, worked for a local builders merchants, and let’s just say these lumps of rock were “surplus to requirements.”  It’s rather fitting that they should form part of a garden, created in his memory. I appreciate this sounds a little morbid, but it’s not supposed to be, instead it’s a nice way of remembering a much missed family member who lost his wife, 20 or more years ago, and who also left no children to follow in his footsteps.

One of the benefits of living in a 1930’s property, is the large garden. Land must have held less value, compared to bricks and mortar, 90 odd years ago, which means we’re blessed with plenty of space to do with what we will. So, with two patio areas, a garden shed, greenhouse and summerhouse, we’re in our own little rural idyll as soon as we step outside the backdoor. That’s if you ignore the noise of the aircraft, as they fly overhead, on their flight-path towards Gatwick.

I also like to grow a few vegetables, and whilst my little enterprise is not a patch on the “Good Life,” being able to enjoy the fruits of one’s labours with some homegrown vegetables, does take some beating. It’s had work, mind you, although all the digging, tilling, and sowing must go some way towards keeping a person fit. If all goes according to plan, we should be enjoying tomatoes, sweet corn, runner beans and leeks. Two of those crops are well underway, and thanks to the fine weather over the weekend, I was able to plant out the sweet corn seedlings I have been nurturing carefully over the past couple of months.

The leek seedlings are still in their trays, but I have prepared an area of ground where I can transplant them individually, once they grow a little bit larger. I'm lucky with tomatoes, as a work colleague normally grows a few plants for me, so I've got half a dozen coming on nicely in the greenhouse, and over the next week or so I should be able to plant these out in large tubs, out on the patio. Finally, and somewhat belatedly, I sowed a dozen or so runner bean seeds, again into pots, but there should be sufficient time to get them planted in the remaining free area of garden before we disappear from these shores on another Mediterranean cruise.

This time around we've booked a 16-night voyage on the Queen Anne, which is the latest addition to Cunard’s fleet of Queen ships. We won't be going quite as far afield as last time, which is a shame, as in some respects it would be nice to visit a few more of the Greek islands, or possibly Croatia, but this particular cruise will see us visiting various locations in Spain, the Balearics, Sardinia, and Italy. The latter destination will see us docking at Civitavecchia, which is the nearest port to Rome, with the Eternal City an approximate 90-minute coach journey inland. Our cruise will only be the Queen Anne’s third sailing following her maiden voyage at the end of last month. 

Consequently, it's been a bit frantic getting the garden tidy, and all these crops planted out, prior to us going away but once it's all done, we can disappear off  to Southampton leaving son Matthew, who is minding the house whilst we are away, to give them the occasional watering,during our absence. There’s a family wedding to look forward to when we get back, which will see the youngest of Eileen’s two nieces, marrying her long-term partner.

The upshot of all this is, I haven't been in any pubs for a couple of weeks, and whilst I know some may chastise me for not doing my bit to save pubs, my answer is pubs can look after themselves for a while. My few pints isn't going to make that much difference anyway, although that's not to say couldn't murder a pint right now, but needs must and all that. I'm pleased to report though, that if all goes according to plan, I'm banking on squeezing in a Pub Friday trip at the end of the week, although I shall keep the destination to myself for the time being. That’s all then, for the time being, from a rather damp, but not overly chilly, West Kent.

A few more "Locals" I have known

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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.