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.

 

 

Free to travel

My new UK Passport arrived in the post yesterday, and today, my soon to expire old passport, was also delivered by Royal Mail. The latter was just a week after returning the document, whilst the actual application took just 9 days from filling out the online application, attaching the electronic photos and paying the fee, prior to approval. Three days later, my shiny new passport arrived in the post, as advised via email, from HM Passport Office.

I have to say I was really impressed with both the speed of the service, plus the ease of the renewal process itself. I remember talking to some friends about this process, back in the late summer whilst on a CAMRA – organised day out in Broadstairs. They said how easy and straightforward the process was, and I am delighted to discover they were right, despite my reservations that the run up to Christmas might not be the best time for dealing with renewal applications.

 So, no more hunting around for a “person of character” – doctor, lawyer, priest etc to verify my photo, and no more struggling to position the photo onto my application (Cunard & DVLA please take note). And for anyone looking to do the same, then nip along to your nearest branch of Snappy Snaps, and they’ll take care of the photographic process for you. Not only will they take a photo with the right posture, they will frame in for you, cut the sheet into four, and then email a unique, time-bound code which when inputted onto your electronic n form, will upload the photo directly onto your application. Easy, peasy, as the saying goes!

So now, I am the proud holder of a new UK Passport, and whilst it does have the blue cover that Johnson and the rest of the Brexiteer loons were getting all het up about, the colour used is such a dark shade of navy blue, that to all intents and purposes, it might as well be black! Finally, full marks to HM Passport Office who, after many years of criticism, have finally got their act together, and come up with a system that works, as well as being user friendly. I know it goes against established wisdom, but sometimes, government departments, can get things right!!

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.

 

 

 

Return to Madeira, half a century on

We’ve been home now, from our late autumn cruise, for just over a month, and I suddenly realised that I hadn't written anything about our visit to Madeira – officially the third port of call on our two-week voyage. However, as things turned out, with our aborted attempt to dock at Praia de Vitoria, Madeira was actually the second location we visited. Our ship docked at Funchal, the lovely and rather charming capital of Madeira, where we had an overnight stop at Funchal. This gave us two full days in which to explore this charming town along with the surrounding area.

As I’ve probably mentioned before, I’d visited Funchal before, again arriving by ship, although that time it was a school “educational cruise” in a converted, former troop ship. As almost 50 years had passed since that visit, my memories of Madeira are rather limited. Having said that, I’m pretty certain that my school mates and I just proceeded down the gangway and walked into Funchal, rather than being bussed into town, as Eileen, me and other passengers were. The drive itself took around 10 minutes, if that’s anything to go by, but after half a century, who really knows.

The coach dropped us off at a bus station on the seafront, where there were landscaped gardens, shaded with palm trees. We decided to explore the immediate vicinity before finding a suitable place for lunch. Eileen’s niece, and her husband had visited the island recently and had strongly recommended a restaurant situated further along the seafront. She hadn’t indicated how far along, but after reviewing the location on Google Maps, we realized it was a good 45–50-minute walk. This was rather too far Mrs PBT’s, and further too than I’d care to walk, just for a bite to eat. Fortunately, we discovered several excellent alternatives in the vicinity.

Our first stop was a small café with outdoor shaded seating, beneath a canopy. We dropped in, ordered a coffee each, as well as a delicious Portuguese custard tart. Sitting there gave us time to figure out where to eat later. We then wandered down one of the side streets that run parallel to the shoreline—narrow, bustling, and full of charm. 

There were plenty of local cafés and bars opening onto the street, all very inviting and tempting, although one particularly proprietor was rather too vocal and persistent for my liking, in his attempts to encourage visitors to try his rooftop bar. It may well have afforded views out over the seafront, but he didn’t get our custom, no matter how good his establishment might have been.

We moved on and looked elsewhere, and after taking a shortcut, back towards the sea front, we found the terminus of the city's famous cable car. For €20, you can ride right to the top of the hills (mountains) behind the city, and enjoy uninterrupted views stretching right across Funchal, and out to the sea beyond. Having watched the film “Where Eagles Dare”, I've never been that keen on cable cars. Mrs PBT’s felt the same, so we decided to skip that activity, and walked a little further in the direction of the ship. There we noticed a contemporary and laid-back place called “Loft”, with a few tables overlooking the grassy area we'd just passed through.

Wanting something light for our lunch, we checked out their menu, which included some nice bruschetta’s, and decided to give the place a try. We found a table, in the shade, and ordered some drinks. A half litre of Coral White – the local lager, for me and whatever Eileen was having - mineral water I expect. Our food arrived, looking nicely presented, and tasting as good as it looked. It was just the right size for lunch, as without wishing to sound too self-righteous, we were trying to be mindful about what we ate, despite being on holiday.

Afterwards, whilst Mrs PBT’s got stuck into her obligatory coffee, I decided to try the Coral Stout, but somehow, I ended up with another White beer. Something had obviously been lost in translation, but no matter. On our way back to the coach terminal, we found the inevitable souvenir shop and picked up a few goodies, including a couple of the ever-popular fridge magnets. No pineapples though, just to disappoint those who get excited about such things! Afterward, we took the bus back to the cruise terminal and returned to the ship.

The following morning, at Mrs PBT's suggestion, I went into Funchal on my own. If anything, the day was hotter than the previous one, and I was left wishing I'd brought my water bottle with me – an "elementary school boy error", as one of my colleagues would say. But I hadn't, regardless of my colleague’s advice, so after staying in the shade as much as possible, I found a nice little corner café, close to Funchal’s rather modest looking cathedral. I sat outside, in the shade, enjoying a coffee plus a bottle of ice-cold water, before contemplating my next move.

It had been quite a climb up to the cathedral, although given that Funchal is constructed on a hill, this wasn’t surprising. I’d ended up on the other side of the main thoroughfare that bisects the town, so I headed in a roughly easterly direction, and ended up close to where Eileen and I had been the day before. 

Not all the shops were open, as it was a religious holiday, but the restaurants, bars and souvenir outlets were certainly trading, as were the ice-cream sellers, so hiding behind the pretext that a cone, or small tub would cool me down, I ordered a generous scoop. It was one of those places that leave you spoiled for choice, but whilst tempted by mango, I opted for the pineapple ice cream – what is it about that fruit that is so tempting?

After crossing the busy highway that runs down from the upper parts of Funchal, towards the seafront, I realised I was back in the maze of narrow back streets where we had walked the previous day. I was tempted by a small, local fish-restaurant, where patrons could sit outside, and enjoy a meal whilst watching the world go by. With menus in English, and photos to guide one, I opted for a freshly grilled sea-bass – highly recommended according to the friendly waiter. Served with some freshly cooked, boiled potatoes and garnished with parsley and butter, it was the perfect lunchtime meal. A glass of Coral Stout - the beer I'd missed out on the day before, went down well with my meal, as well as being another tick on Untappd.

I went inside to make use of the “facilities” and also to pay the bill. As I was counting out the cash, the waiter, and the chef, offered me a glass of “Poncha”, a traditional alcoholic beverage, made with sugar cane rum, honey and lemon juice that is popular in Madeira. The rum was over-proof, so this shot, which was on the house, had quite a kick to it.  A nice place, though with good food, nice surroundings and friendly people, what more could one want?

With the afternoon drawing to a close, I returned to the bus terminal and took the bus back to the ship, aiming of course be back on board with ample time before the scheduled departure. I’m sure many of you will have seen those YouTube clips of late returning passengers running along the pier, waving their arms in a vain attempt to signal the ship to halt. This of course is a futile gesture, as once the vessel has prepared to depart, and cast off its lines it cannot return to the quayside, unless there is a dire emergency. Not allowing sufficient time to be back on board, doesn’t constitute such a situation.

Later that evening Mrs PBT’s and I sat out on our cabin balcony, watching Queen Victoria slide away from the quayside, before heading out to sea. With the lights of Funchal twinkling away in the background, the ship followed the coastline of Madeira for a while, until we reached a point where the island’s main airport came into view. The latter is quite a construction, on an island with very little in the way of flat land. The airport’s designers’ solved this issue by supporting the runway on concrete pillars, which rise above the hill side and an adjacent motorway. With the lights, and later sounds of an approaching aircraft, I retrieved my binoculars from the cabin and watched as the plane made a text-book landing. 

According to Eileen’s niece, it’s quite a scary descent and landing, so maybe arriving and departing by ship, is the way to go. It’s how both my visits to Madeira were achieved, although I’m fairly certain that airport hadn’t been conceived, let alone built back in 1971, when I first came to this charming and captivating Atlantic island.

 

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.