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.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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