Stuck inside of Tonbridge with the named storm blues again

Well with much of the south-east hunkered down against the worst that Storm Dennis can throw at us, I have to say this is the second weekend when I know I’ll be going stir-crazy from being confined to quarters. I was up a ladder earlier this morning securing the tarpaulin that is protecting the shed roof, against the forecast heavy winds.

I also picked up some of the remnants of our garden seat/ gazebo; most of which ended up in next door’s garden following last week’s named storm. I’m going to be busy, come the spring, attempting to reassemble said structure, along with replacing half a dozen fence panels which also took a battering.

Mrs PBT’s and I took a drive down into Tonbridge around lunchtime, just before the rain arrived, in order to pick up some shopping. The town wasn’t quite as grid-locked as predicted, but for those not in the know, a section of the A21 trunk road, which by-passes Tonbridge, has been closed in both directions for a week, to allow the re-building of a little-used pedestrian underpass, along with repairs to the viaduct that carries the dual-carriageway across the River Medway.

A footpath runs under the aforementioned underpass, and I used it once whilst walking the Wealdway long distance footpath back in 2010. Like many others I wasn’t aware that this tunnel-like structure was in a poor state of repair, but its condition does explain the speed restrictions due to a “weak bridge,” that have been in place on the A21 for at least a couple of years.

The next week should be interesting, as the traffic which would normally use the A21 is being diverted through Tonbridge and Hildenborough.  In mitigation, the schools are on half-term break next week, so the roads should be largely free of dizzy blonds, ferrying their little darlings to and from school, in massively over-sized 4 x 4’s.

Over-powered “Chelsea tractors” are one of the bug bears of living in the south east, but on the upside, the area is normally amongst the driest regions in the country. Not so this year, as I can’t ever recall having endured such a wet and dismal winter in the sixty years plus that I’ve been conscious of such things.

On my drive into work on Thursday morning, following another night of torrential rain – that I was completely unaware of, having slept right through, the surface water was such that sections of road that I have never known to be affected by flooding in the 14 years I have driven this route, were only “passable with care.” Where’s it all going to end? Or should that be when is it going to end?

The damp weather has scuppered any ideas for cross-country walking, so plans to complete further sections of the North Downs Way have been put on hold until things dry out. The same applies to any outdoor work, including replacing the aforementioned damaged fences.

If it’s any consolation, the weather has been unseasonably mild, and I can probably count on one hand the number of mornings I’ve had to be out early, scraping the ice of the car windscreen. It’s been so mild, in fact, that we haven’t contemplated lighting our log burner. The energy companies will be complaining soon that as customers are not using as much gas and electricity, prices will have to rise. How else will they be able to pay a dividend to their fat cat shareholders?  

The mild weather also seems to have fooled a number of plants into flowering early. The daffodils Mrs PBT’s and I noticed in full bloom, a fortnight ago on the Gower Peninsular, might have seemed down to the area’s very specific micro-climate, but I have now seen similar blooms on my drive in to work. Snow drops, those other heralds of spring,  are also in abundance, and I have come across quite a few during my regular lunchtime walks.

And so to matters beer, where there doesn’t seem to be much happening; certainly not in an organised fashion. There’s a CAMRA social planned before the end of the month, involving a pub crawl around Southborough. This doesn’t exactly fill me with enthusiasm, especially as the town has lost quite a few of its pubs over the years, although I might still turn up at the last pub on the list, just to make the point that not all of us are retired and able to make a 7pm start!

So as the winds from Storm Dennis continue to blow outside, I’ll sign off and look for something more interesting and entertaining to write about.

Fighting back against the temperance tide

I get all sorts of interesting links sent to my Smart Phone.  I’m obviously not alone in this, as anyone who regularly uses Google to search for anything will indeed testify. Look for something once, and for the next few days Google will ensure you are bombarded with all sorts of allied links, some of them tenuous in the extreme or even bordering on nebulous.

Being interested in pubs, beer and all things brewing means Google knows pretty much what to send me, and of course I don’t mind, especially as from time to time, some really interesting, or thought-provoking, beer-related story or news item pops up in my feed.

One such item is this article by journalist and beer sommelier Sophie Atherton, which appeared on Monday, in the online edition of the Morning Advertiser. Labouring under the lengthy title of  “The pub is primarily about alcoholic beverages. I’d like it to stay that way,” the piece has a similar message to that put forward by other beer writers and bloggers, especially coming, as it does, at the end of Dry January.

It particularly reminded me of a recent post by Pub Curmudgeon, called “Drinking with the enemy.” Appropriately enough, the article appeared in mid-January, and whilst it is quite lengthy, Curmudgeon, or Mudgie as he is sometimes known, puts forward the notion, that given the greatly improved choice and quality of alcohol-free beers available now, doing without alcohol doesn’t require as much of a sacrifice as it once did.

He then goes on to say that increased availability of no and low-alcohol beers (NALAB’s), misses the point, as the fundamental reason people drink beer is because it contains alcohol. While people may have entirely valid reasons for choosing an alcohol-free beer, it is always to some extent a “distress purchase.” NALAB’s are intended to mimic, as far as possible, the experience of drinking a standard beer, but with that crucial, mild-intoxicating element missing.

Sophie kicks off her article with the surprising news that 25% of pub visits are now alcohol free, but then breathes a sigh of relief, because this means that 75% of pub visits are still about going for a drink. She throws in another statistic which shows that 45% of people are already satisfied with the NALAB offer available in pubs.

With this in mind, she raises her concern that the push to promote and prominently fill fridges and bar space with alcohol-free drinks, is just another way of furthering the anti-alcohol agenda, rather than a response to genuine consumer demand.

A similar analogy can be found in Veganuary, the campaign that encourages non-vegans to adopt a vegan diet during the month of January, and which now seems to have become an annual event. On recent shopping trips, Mrs PBT’s and I have noticed supermarket shelves and fridges, over-flowing with "ersatz meat dishes", and wondered is this down to genuine demand or, more likely, is it a way for food producers and retailers to line their pockets.

Now I’ve had the pleasure of meeting both Sophie Atherton and Pub Curmudgeon, and enjoying a few beers with them; albeit not at the same time.  Despite them probably coming from slightly different ends of the beer appreciation spectrum, they are both putting out the same message, and it is one that is being raised by an increasing number of people.

The combined message from both authors is that without alcoholic drinks, and the people who consume them, there would be no pubs, so watch out for attempts to replace joyful, social pub-going with soulless, booze-free café culture.

The final words should go a pub landlady who runs two pubs on the edge of the Cotswolds. Sophie’s article quotes her at length her piece which starts with the words, “I am so sick of people demonising alcohol,” but her main focus is on promoting the benefits of getting out to the pub in order to meet, talk and interact face to face with other human beings, rather than attempting to do this on a screen, in a virtual and ultimately disconnected world. 

I’m sure these sentiments are something we can all empathise over and totally agree with, and for me, even though I don’t get out to pubs as much as I used to, or indeed would like to, there is still nothing finer than, “A pint amongst friends.”

Friday evening at TJ's beer bash

As alluded to in the previous post, the lad and I called in at Tonbridge Juddians Rugby Club on Friday night, to see what was on offer at their Winter Beer Festival. Unlike the main summer event, which is run jointly with SIBA and held under canvas, the winter festival takes place at the clubhouse, and is a much more of a low-key event.

The festival is normally timed to coincide with the Six Nations rugby tournament, and with England playing Scotland this weekend, the clubhouse was likely to have been full to bursting point on the Saturday. So much as I enjoy the game that’s played with an odd-shaped ball, I don’t enjoy being squeezed in so tight that I can hardly move. Therefore, as in previous years, Friday evening is the right time to partake of a few interesting beers.

It also provides a good excuse to catch up with friends and acquaintances you might not have seen for some time. Matthew and I arrived just after 8pm. We’d each brought a TJ’s Festival glass with us, as we’ve several at home from previous events. After purchasing a tenner’s worth of tokens each we headed straight to the bar. There were 24 beers on sale, somewhat disappointingly none of them were head-bangers this year, but all priced at one token per half pint.

We spotted a small group of friends from West Kent CAMRA, who’d managed to grab a table. There were a couple of seats spare, so we sat down to join them. Some had been there since shortly after the 5pm opening, so it was handy to compare notes with them. The majority of the beers were locally sourced, although there were a few from places further afield such as Brighton (Hand Brewery), Bristol (Arbor) and Newport (Tiny Rebel).

Stand-out beers for me were QPA, a very drinkable 4% pale ale from Quantock Brewery (not exactly just down the road), Five C’s APA a 5% American Pale Ale from 360º Brewery of Sheffield Park (much more local) and Goa Express a 5.2% “Chai Baltic Porter” from Dark Revolution of Salisbury (somewhere in-between in terms of local). The latter, with its distinctive Chai spice notes and flavours, was surprisingly drinkable, and whilst not an every day beer, was a good dark beer to finish the evening on, from a festival range that was disappointingly bereft of dark beers.

As well as friends from CAMRA, we bumped into two couples, plus assorted hangers-on who we know from the days when our children all attended the same primary school. Tonbridge is that sort of town.

As the evening progressed the number of people in the clubhouse started to dwindle; noticeably in comparison to previous years. Matthew and I left shortly after last orders had been called and made our way home back along Tonbridge High Street. The town too seemed quite subdued, and even our local Spoons looked half empty as we passed by.

For some years now, I have shied away from beer festivals, although I do like to support a local event wherever possible. Being away the previous week, meant missing Tonbridge’s first Beer Weekend which, from the reports was quite successful. It was a pub-based event, with various outlets in the town putting on something special, such as a meet the brewer evening, or they hosted a “tap-takeover” from a brewery whose beers we don’t often see in the town – the Nelson, for example, featured a range of beers from Fyne Ales in Scotland.

Horses for courses, and whilst I am happy to support both types of event, I really like the concept behind Tonbridge’s Beer Weekend, and will ensure that I am around for next year’s event – assuming there is one!

Check in at the Chequers for breakfast

Continuing their quest for the perfect breakfast, father and son team, Paul and Matthew ventured along to one of the oldest parts of Tonbridge High Street, this morning and really came up trumps. 

I’m not talking about the orange idiot in the White House, but instead I’m referring to us unearthing one of the best breakfasts, both in terms of quality and value for money, that we’ve had in a long time.

We discovered our breakfast "Shangri-La" at the Chequers, which is one of the oldest buildings in Tonbridge. Situated near the “Big Bridge” over the River  Medway, in the shadow of Tonbridge’s ancient castle, the Chequers has quite rightly been described as "one of the finest examples of a Kentish timber-framed building that can be found today.”

It is certainly a very attractive building and its photogenic qualities mean that, after the castle, it is one of the most photographed buildings in Tonbridge. I wrote an article here, back in August 2018, so I won’t repeat it all here, but what I will say it was purely by chance that father and son ended up there on Saturday morning.

We’d walked past the Chequers on Friday evening, on our way to Tonbridge Juddians Rugby Club, for their annual winter beer and cider festival. We noticed an “A” board on the pavement outside advertising a what looked like a substantial breakfast for the principal sum of £5.95. There was also a large breakfast available for a couple of quid more.

We normally reserve our breakfast outings for Sunday mornings, but with Storm Ciara due to batter the country tomorrow, we decided to bring it forward a day. Matthew was not working this weekend, so a fairly early start saw us walking into the Chequers at around 9.30am.

We were the first people in, but the friendly landlady soon appeared to take our order and to tell us we could sit where we liked. We opted for a table to the far left of the “L” shaped bar, and before long our host re-appeared with a mug of tea for each of us, and some toast. This was Matthew’s first visit to the Chequers, so I told him a little more about the place. See previous post for details.

It wasn’t long before the chef appeared with our food, warning us the plates were very hot – always a good sign as far as I am concerned. So with three rashers of bacon, two tasty farmhouse sausages, a fried egg, tomato, hash browns, toast and black pudding, this was definitely a breakfast to keep me, at least, going until tea time.

While we were getting stuck into our breakfast, several other people came in. We noticed at least four more breakfasts being served; understandable given the keen pricing and the quality of the offering. From the questions being asked and the responses given, I had the distinct impression they were regulars at the pub.

To finish, I’ve included a photo of the pumps – this is a blog about beer after all. I wouldn’t mind betting that three is one pump too many, especially as the Chequers has never struck me as much of an ale drinkers’ pub. If I was in charge, I’d knock the Tribute on the head, leaving just the Harvey’s Best and the Proper Job to satisfy the cask crowd.

Given the pub’s proximity to home I can see the Chequers becoming a regular breakfast haunt amongst the male members of the Bailey household.  And seeing as they’ve got St Austell Proper Job on tap, I might also be tempted to pop in one evening – as long as it’s not karaoke night!

Gower - re-visited

As those who have been paying attention will know, Mrs PBT’s and I spent a few days recently, in Welsh Wales. We travelled down to for a family funeral, to pay our final respects to my great aunt, who passed away last month at the ripe old age of 97.

Whilst funerals are obviously sad occasions, they do afford the opportunity of catching up with family members who you might not have seen for a while. My aunt’s was no exception, but along with reconnecting with the Welsh side of the family, being in Wales allowed me to re-explore an area which was a favourite from childhood, and the setting for some memorable family holidays.

We travelled across to Wales on the Sunday, staying at a Premier Inn, on the edge of Llanelli; the Carmarthenshire town famous for both rugby and tin-plate production. Just across from Llanelli, projecting out into the Bristol Channel, on the other side of the Loughor estuary, is the Gower Peninsular; the first area in the United Kingdom to be designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

With my aunt’s funeral not due to take place until 4pm on the Monday, and us not travelling back to Kent until the following day, we had a free morning to carry out some of that exploring. So what better than to head over to the Gower for a scenic drive around and a stop off at one or two local beauty spots.

The Gower was the location of several happy family holidays as a child, staying with my parents and younger sister in a caravan at Oxwich Bay. My aunt and uncle lived in nearby Swansea, and most days we would meet up with them and my four cousins, sharing idyllic days on the nearby beach, or visiting some of Gower’s other coastal  attractions.

The sheer beauty of some of those long sandy beaches, sandwiched between exposed rocky headlands, stayed with me, and I managed to share a small part of it with Mrs PBT’s, when we spent the second half of our honeymoon at Caswell Bay. I had a longing to re-engage with this part of the country and show Eileen a bit more of what Gower had to offer, so despite it being early February, we set off to visit two unspoilt and rugged locations at the far end of the peninsular.

I had an OS map in the car, but to save us keep stopping to look at the map, I suggested we make use of the dodgy Chinese sat-nav, on Mrs PBT’s phone. That was a big mistake as we were directed along roads only narrow enough for one vehicle, and hills so steep that a rack and pinion type of traction, would not have been out of place. In the end, common sense took over and I reverted to my trusty Ordnance Survey Map.

First port of call, was the long sandy beach which forms Rhossili Bay, at the western extremity of the Gower Peninsular. Three miles in length, and backed by extensive sand dunes, the beach is known locally as Llangennith Sands. Behind the beach just north of Llangennith village is Rhossili Down with the highest point on the Gower Peninsula, the Beacon reaching 633 feet above sea level.

We always referred to the beach as Llangennith, and with the dunes providing shelter from the strong onshore westerly wind, this was the perfect place for our two families to set up camp and spread ourselves out, before making forays down to the water’s edge. Wading out through the shallow surf until almost at chest height, and then jumping, and at times cresting the powerful breakers which came crashing in from the Atlantic, was a favourite pastime of my father, sister and one of our cousins, until the time my sister was caught in a rip-tide.

I was present too, but as I could feel an undercurrent starting to pull at me, I sensibly turned and swam back towards the shore. The next thing I saw was my father frantically waving for me to help with my sister. Instinct kicked in, so I swam back out, and together the pair of us, managed to haul my sister back to safety. It was a close-run thing and a strong reminder of  the power of the sea!

I digress, but when re-visiting places such as this, the memories come flooding back. On this current visit, we didn’t drive all the way down to the dunes, but instead parked up on the hill, taking in the splendid view out to sea and the magnificent sweep of Rhossili Bay.

We were both a little peckish by now – all that sea air, so my plan was to head southwards along the bay to the rocky headland which culminates at a promontory known as Worm’s Head. I’d done a spot of homework, and discovered that the nearby Worm’s Head Hotel offered a decent lunch and an equally decent drop of ale. So off we went.

The only trouble is that with the imposing bulk of Rhossili Down in the way, there is no direct road from Llangennith to Rhossili village. We had to head several miles back inland, before joining first the A4118 and then the winding B4247, which took us to our destination. We parked up at the National Trust-owned car park at the far end of Rhossili, which conveniently is adjacent to the Worm’s Head Hotel.

We made our way inside, after stopping to take a few photos of the magnificent scenery. The Worm's Head, is shaped like a giant sea-serpent and marks the most westerly tip of Gower. It’s name comes from the Norse “Wurm,” meaning dragon, and is an island joined to the mainland by a rocky causeway. I remember walking out to the end of  the promontory with my father. I’m sure he was tempted to cross to the island, but my mother would have had kittens at the prospect, so on that occasion, discretion took the place of valour.

Refreshment time, but when we walked into the bar of the Worm’s Head Hotel, we were the morning’s first customers. The barman informed us that the kitchen opened at midday, so with less than 15 minutes to wait, we ordered ourselves a drink, and moved into the adjacent Bay Lounge, where there are magnificent views out across the sweep of Rhossili Bay. We discovered that where we were sitting was once the hotel car park; this section and the adjoining bar being added to the main hotel, back in 1972.

This was probably shortly after my last visit to the area, and as I remarked upon the splendid view, the barman replied how lucky he was to have such scenery right outside his “office window.” There were a couple of cask ales on tap, and in selecting the 4.5% Gower Gold, I made the right choice, as this locally-brewed golden ale, is packed full of cascade hops.  Definitely a 3.5 NBSS.

Not quite knowing what would be happening after the funeral, we both opted for a light lunch, in the form of a tuna and mayonnaise baguette apiece. Nice and fresh, it fitted in

with the bright and airy feel of the hotel, which has 17 en-suite bedrooms, a restaurant and all the facilities one would expect from such an establishment.

The Worm’s Head Hotel is family run, and given it remote location, at the western extremity of the Gower Peninsular, is the ideal place for getting away from it all, whilst still retaining plenty of creature comforts. With nothing much in the way of shops in the immediate vicinity, Mrs PBT’s might take some convincing, but I’m already sold on the place.

An unexpected surprise

Just a quick post from my phone. Mrs PBT's and I are currently down in Welsh Wales, in advance of a family funeral tomorrow.

It's my great aunt who we'll be saying goodbye to tomorrow. She was in her late nineties and managed to stay in her own home until just before the end.

Funerals, however sad, do allow the opportunity for catching up with family members, and this one will allow me to reconnect with the Welsh side of the family.

Despite previous issues, we're staying at a Premier Inn again. The Llanelli East hotel is a short drive  from the crematorium, and with my sister traveling down from Nottingham tomorrow, it's a handy place for us to meet up.


After a four and a half  hour drive from Kent, we thought we'd stay local this evening, so it was off to the adjacent Beefeater for a bite to eat and something to drink.

Now the beer offering in these places is usually pretty dire. I ended up drinking Erdinger Weissbier at the  Beefeater nearest our hotel in Dundee last month, so the sight of a hand pump with a Brain's SA clip was one to gladden the heart of a drinker resigned to pints of insipid  Doom Bar.

We sat down, scanned the menu and ordered some drinks. My pint of Brains came topped with a thick creamy head. The first taste confirmed its excellence, and boy what a cracking pint it was!

It was a definite 3.5 NBSS, and I even contemplated awarding it a 4! Of course I had to have another, and it was equally good.

So full marks to the Pemberton Beefeater, for going with something relatively local, rather than playing it safe by going with a national bland.

Footnote: I re-jigged the layout of this post, when I arrive home. What looks OK on the small-screen, doesn't always transfer across so well to the large one.

We called in at the Beefeater the following evening, with my sister. This was after leaving my aunt's wake. The local club, where the wake was held, had put on a good spread, but as my sister is denying herself all animal related products, there wasn't much that she could eat.

We decided to grab a couple of bowls of chips, even though Eileen and I weren't all that hungry. 
More importantly, there was the chance of another pint of Brains. It wasn't quite as good as the previous evening, but was still eminently drinkable. 

The Pemberton Beefeater did drop slightly in Mrs PBT's estimation as it refused to accept her fifty pound note - company policy, apparently. 
 
She was still fuming about it the following day!

Sun sets on the Rising Sun

CAMRA's WhatPub describes the Rising Sun, at Cotman's Ash as, "a remote hilltop pub with a fading pub sign, which makes it difficult to find." The fact it is hidden behind a hedge, in an area criss-crossed with hedgerows, makes discovery even harder. Persistence pays off though, and it is well worth the extra effort in tracking the pub down.

At least it was, but sadly, on the very same day that Britain turned its back on the European Union, and shut up shop in Brussels, the Rising Sun also pulled its very last pint. Faced with a steadily declining trade, the current landlady, who took over the pub with her late husband in the early 90's, has decided to call it a day.

This is a real tragedy for those who love unspolit country pubs, but it is difficult, if nigh impossible in this day and age, to make a living from a pub that relies solely on wet sales. Although the Rising Sun was popular with walkers, especially during the summer months, the understandable reluctance of driving there, and being limited to just a couple of drinks, was hardly an encouragement for trade.

I've been told that the Rising Sun did at one time serve food, and was well patronised, so I'm not sure why this important side of the business was dropped, but as from 1st February, the pub is now a private residence. The landlady will continue to live there, but with no apparent interest from her children in taking the place over, the Rising Sun seems unlikely to re-open as a pub.

Last Sunday I joined a small group of local CAMRA members on a rather muddy walk to this classic old country pub; a walk prompted, and hastily arranged, by news of its imminent closure. Our walk started from Otford station, and followed the route of the North Downs Way. You can read about it here.

WhatPub's description is accurate, as were it not for the sign poking up from behind the hedgerow, we would have walked straight passed. The Rising Sun has a flint exterior and is  thought to be a  former hunting lodge.  It sits in its own grounds,  which include a reasonably-sized  beer garden with a vegetable plot at the far end. The presence of a hen coupe completes the image of a rural small-holding.

As we arrived, we were greeted by a couple of dogs, followed by the landlady, who was making her way out with a couple of large bird feeders. She stopped in her tracks and returned inside instead, ready to serve us.

It seemed quite dark inside the pub, but as she made her way back behind the bar, she told us to make ourselves at home around the table in front of the fireplace. The interior of the Rising Sun has the sort of oak beams you'd expect in an old country inn, with the main centre of activity grouped around the bar. There is a room to the right, but this seemed to be a general "dumping ground," and was full with boxes, piles of magazines and all other sorts of clutter.

Leading off to the left, behind the chimney and fireplace is a much larger and more spacious room, furnished with a number of old settees and armchairs. This area is also carpeted and had the feel of an old fashioned parlour, or sitting room. My grandparents had such a room at the far end of their Suffolk cottage. It was only used for best, or special occasions, such as entertaining visitors, or important guests.

The landlady's dogs had made themselves at home in this room, unlike the pub cat which took a real shine to one of my friends, perching itself on his lap for the duration of our stay. As for the beer, well it ran out, the single hand-pump had a beer from there was just enough for a pint each for the five of us, before the cask ran dry.

The beer in question was Giggle & Titter, a 3.8% session IPA from Parkway Brewery - very Frankie  Howerd - "titter ye not," for those who remember the late comedian. The brewery are based in the Somerset market town of Somerton, and the beer's name is rhyming slang for "bitter." It was rather good, so the fact that it ran out was even more disappointing.

The landlady said that was it, as with the pub closing at the end of the week, she was running stocks down. She told us that rather ironically, after announcing she was shutting up shop, back in the autumn, she'd had one of busiest periods for a long time; in fact the past three months had seen more sales than the previous year!

So if you like pubs to be homely and unchanged, like me you will be sorry to see the loss  of the Rising Sun. As a relic from yesteryear, its passing represents the disappearance of yet another unique, quaint, old-fashioned and rather special, time-warp pub. Years ago most country pubs were like this, and I can recall many similar establishments that have either closed their doors or been converted into upmarket eateries.

The latter seems the only way such gems can survive, but sadly it is now too late to enjoy this one. Last Sunday represented only my third visit to the Rising Sun, so three visits in over thirty years is hardly much of a record, and if other people's visits were as infrequent as mine, nowhere near enough to keep a pub like this going.

A real shame, as the landlady made us all feel welcome, as did the small group of regulars, crowded in front of the bar. Where they will drink now is anyone's guess, but I can't help thinking that sadly, we have lost something rather unique and very special.