Beer, walks & history

Update: The Golden Lion, Allendale Town

2010-03-11T01:20:00.000-08:00

Further to my visit to The Golden Lion on July 7, 2008, I am told that it has changed hands and that both beer and service has improved beyond recognition. I'll have to get over there and see for myself, especially now that the weather has improved. Watch this space.

Three Days in Paradise

2010-01-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

Apparently the people who turned up at the legendary Tan Hill Inn for a New Year bash were unfortunate enough to get snowed in. They were "stuck" there for three days at the highest pub in Britain and had to make the best of it. The manager charged them ten pounds a night (what a bargain!) to doss down in the pub and roaring fires were kept going twenty four hours of the day. The picture shows the fire they keep going in the summer (it's necessary, believe me) in the barn-end room.

Each day, volunteers went out with the manager to dig out and service the generator.

And, despite their best efforts, he didn't run out of beer! I cannot think of a better "misfortune".

Stonch's End

2010-01-05T03:23:00.000-08:00

So my son Stonch has quit writing his beer blog. Well, I can understand it, as keeping up with these things is very hard when you're a busy man. Actually, he told me of his intentions when he came "home" for Christmas and we were having one or two (it turned out to be eight) beers at the Big Lamp Brewery. Like all sensible fathers whose son has reached 21, I made no attempt to advise him. He may be right - he has got a lot out of the experience, but maybe it's time to move on.
Reading the comments on his "last post", by the way, I feel I must respond to "Anonymous" who refers to my son as a "deluded count". Not only are you unable to spell, mate, but you are totally wrong. I assure you that my son has no titled people in his ancestry.

Street people

2009-11-16T02:27:00.000-08:00

One last point I'd like to make about the street people who infest the city of Nice - I saw the best busker I have seen for many a long year there.

She was an old lady who sang without any form of amplification in the market place. She was accompanied only by a guy in a beret, who plonked away on string instrument (I'm no good at identifying such things) to very good effect.

Altogether, they were an excellent combination and the marketeers applauded with the public at the end of each song. They performed for about an hour, which I thought to be the limit of the old lady's strength and repetoire, as she really put heart and soul into such classics as "Je ne Regrette Rien", then gathered up their money and left with dignity to an all-round peal of applause.

What a contrast to the buggers who make a damned nuisance of themselves in our High Steets, blasting out amplified crap to annoy passers-by.

The Streets of Nice

2009-11-10T05:41:00.000-08:00

Someone recently told me that Ralph McTell's famous folk song "The Streets of London" was originally written about Paris. Well, all I can say is that neither London nor Paris has got anything on Nice for the number and variety of "street people". The mild climate and the number of nooks and crannies in which to doss has attracted bums and stiffs from all over Europe. One favourite spot for dossers is round the side of the rather magnificent War Memorial garden (pictured), so much so that the place stinks permanently of piss.

Every day as I went from the flat I had rented to the beach, I passed an old bag-lady who had made herself a regular home on a street-corner out of old junk, umbrellas and broken deck-chairs!

All very picturesque and you might be inclined to sympathise, but not if you've paid two or three hundred thousand euros for a flat with a view and what you get is a permanent street encampment outside your front door and visible from your balcony.

On the promenade I passed a lovely public garden with palm trees, flowers and benches but it was NOT available to the public, having been completely taken over by a pair of tramps who had spread themselves and their belongings over all the benches, even hanging their clothes up in the trees as a wardrobe. Once during the week I spent in Nice I witnessed the Police moving them on, but they were back within hours.

It's little wonder we sometimes hear of "police brutality" in dealing with these people. It must be very frustrating for them.

It's nice in Nice

2009-11-07T11:21:00.000-08:00

Recently, Marion and I rented an apartment right in the centre of the Old Town in Nice. I was on the Garibaldi trail (he was born there), indulging my fascination with that greatest of all heroes of the 19th century. The Old Town was everything we could have wished for, with wonderfully atmospheric narrow streets, full of life. It was a treat to wander around in the evenings, down the narrow alleyways brightly lit by shops of every description.

One thing that didn't suit me, however, was the price of the beer - 6.5 euros on average for a miserably small glass, not even a pint! Even during the "happy hours", the price only fell to 4.5 euros. And yet the amazing thing was how many drunks there were. Each night inebriated revellers reeled around the streets shouting and making a nuisance of themselves. How do they afford it? Barely had the last of the revellers cleared off than the street cleaners arrived, whistling and rattling about as they hosed down the roads and pavements. Very necessary no doubt, not only to clear up after the drunks but because Nice is a town of not-too-conscientious dog owners.

No, Nice is not the place to go if you want a peaceful night's sleep, but it's a great place nonetheless. Who wants to sleep anyway?

The Keelman's Way

2009-10-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

A year or two ago (when I felt leaner and fitter) I followed The Keelman's Way, a cycle track along the south bank of the river from its mouth to West Gateshead, a distance of about eight miles. I passed one or two interesting pubs along the way, including the exotically-named Elephant on the Tyne, a subject I will write upon in the future.

The keelmen were a bunch of hard-drinking bargees who punted the coal down the shallow river to the waiting ships in centuries gone by and the pubs along the riverside saw many a wild "spree" (as they called a boose up) when the keelmen decided to celebrate. The engraving opposite shows "keelmen gathering for a spree". Keelmen's sprees were invariably accompanied by the music of a fiddle or the pipes, and ferocious stamping by way of participation.

I have read a report in an 1805 copy of The Newcastle Star which records that the publican of the Dunston Tavern was "obliged to call out the Watch for the stamping and ranting of numerous keelmen did threaten the integrity of his premises". Too late, the Watch arrived to find that the tavern had collapsed into the river, drowning two of the keelmen. Perhaps this is the origin of the expression "to bring the house down"!

If you want to know more about the keelmen and their unique way of life, you might do worse than to buy one of my little booklets, as featured in the left-hand column of this blog (oh well, it was worth a try...)

The Refurbished Zoo

2009-09-30T09:38:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time we had a bar in our town nicknamed The Zoo. It was so called not only because of the plate glass window along the front of the bar where habitual drinkers sat and stared out moodily at passers-by, but also because of the behaviour of the clientele.
A constant row seemed always to be taking place in that vandalised and smoke-blackened bar-room. People hurled insults at each other across the room in the ripest of language, although the arguments, no matter how endless and fierce, never progressed beyond verbal combat.
It was good to go there and quietly enjoy the spectacle. Alternatively, if you felt like letting off steam, it was equally good to join in. Leaping to your feet you could roar across the crowded hubbub;
"YOU, you f**king bastard, shut your f**king hole!", or some such pleasantry.
Yes, it was a wonderfully refreshing experience and one left feeling light as the air, having gotten all the aggression and rage out of one's system. Far better, and cheaper, than a visit to the psychiatrist.
But now the owners have spoiled it all. Recently the premises was closed for a fortnight and was fully refurbished. Gone are all the old slashed sofas and greasy tables and the place gleams with new paintwork. No-one feels at home there any more. The creatures of The Zoo have been scattered to the four winds and the old place is as quiet as the grave.
I went in there yesterday and heard no swearing and not even a single cross word.
What a let-down! I left feeling all bottled-up and frustrated. There was no relief to be found.

The Waggon at Eighton Banks

2009-09-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

A generation or so ago, if you had mentioned The Waggon at Eighton Banks, near Gateshead, people would have thought you meant a railway truck. For this area was once one of the hubs of the thriving North-East coal industry, employing hundreds of men and working day and night.

Now, sadly, all is dereliction. Since Thatcher's feud with Arthur Scargill, all the pits have been closed and all the associated work in the area has come to an end. Some of the buildings still survive, like the incline hauling station shown opposite, but most are in the process of being ground up to make rubble for hardcore on the roads. It's a sad sight.

But the nearby Waggon Inn is thriving - and rightly so. Here you can get an excellent home-cooked meal for a very reasonable price, big portions too. There's none of your standard menu stuff as dished up in the chain pubs. The Waggon cooks on the premises and I can recommend the home-made steak and kidney pie and, most especially, mince and dumplings, if you can get there early enough before they run out!

They serve a good pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord, but my favourite has to be Mordue's Workie Ticket, a bitter beer which retains its head right down the glass.

Yes, I would say that if you are interested enough in our industrial heritage to go and visit Eighton Banks, you could do a lot worse than to stop off for a pint at The Waggon.

Soft Furnishings

2009-09-19T00:09:00.000-07:00

If I were a pub licensee, I would certainly keep soft furnishings down to a minimum.

On a recent visit to Haworth, I was driven out of two pubs by the pong. In the first, The Black Bull, the smell of dogs was very strong and I certainly wouldn't have liked to eat there. I like dogs and like to see them in pubs, but they cannot help but leave their scent on the carpets where they lie.

In the second pub I visited, there was a lingering smell of cigarette smoke. I'd better not mention the name of the place in case they are foolishly ignoring the ban (I don't want to get anyone into trouble) but actually, I think it was because the place needed refurbishing. It's very hard to get the stale smell out of carpets (and clothes!) so I suppose years of impregnation has taken it's toll (as the guy said to his wife after their fifteenth kid).

No, if I were a licensee, polished wooden floorboards (like in The Gunmakers, Clerkenwell, my son's gastropub) and simple wooden or metal furniture would be the order of the day.

Goodbye to The Alkali

2009-09-08T03:23:00.000-07:00

The Alkali, the oldest pub in Jarrow, has finally called "last orders" and has been converted to offices.

The pub opened in 1857 to serve the nearby chemical works, where soda (alkali) was produced from a process involving the evaporation of seawater. The major problem associated with the job was that the process released hydrochloric acid which was very harmful to the workers' health, although some employers had the nerve to suggest that it was actually good for them! It cleared the lungs, they claimed.

No safety equipment being provided, workers who did not like having their lungs "cleared", were obliged to "muffle up" as a rudimentary protection.

Despite the hazards of the job (blokes like the pair shown in the photo rarely lived past 50), times were so desperate that there was no lack of takers for the jobs. Irishmen flocked to Jarrow and set up a bit of a colony around Church Square, near the ancient ruins of Bede's Monastery.

Working people will always make the best of things, however, and I have no doubt that many a raucous night occurred at The Alkali when the workers had a bob or two in their pockets.

But now their ghosts will be finally laid to rest.

The Belching Olympics

2009-09-05T00:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, arriving too early for visiting time at the hospital, I went into a nearby pub to sink a pint whilst waiting.
At first I thought that I had come across a swearing contest : everyone in the place was addressed as a c**t and no sentence, or even part of a sentence, was complete without the descriptive and imaginative use of the word f**king.
But I soon discovered that it was in fact a belching contest I had stumbled across. In fact, it was possibly the belching Olympics. A thickset middle-aged man who looked like he had suffered a hard paper-round started the proceedings with an explosive offering. Glancing round, I noticed that this performance impressed no-one. All the c**ts sat stoney-faced.
Next came a wet, crackling effort from a huge, bald, tattooed f*cker, but this drew no comment whatsoever. I soon knew why - they were all waiting for the champion, a little bandy-legged fellow wearing a cloth cap!
His contribution, which I cannot find superlatives enough to describe, almost lifted the roof and drew roars of protest from the assembled company:
"For f**k's sake, is there no peace in this f**king place, you c**nts?"
Apparently not.

Apologies to readers

2009-08-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry that I haven't been able to give my blog any attention for quite a while now. Unexpected serious illness has cropped up out of the blue, affecting a very near and dear person, so I haven't been able to give my mind to writing. I shall be trying to get back on track soon.

Off to Yorkshire

2009-06-19T01:40:00.000-07:00

As the title says, I'm off to Yorkshire this morning. We have hired a cottage near Haworth for a week, so when I get back I will no doubt have many real-ale experiences to relate.
Last time I was in that part of the world, I found some excellent pubs and some great beer.
The more it rains, the better reason to sit in the pub!

Asda come home

2009-06-17T01:35:00.000-07:00

There are many reasons why pubs fail. It's a very complex issue - it's not just down to the "credit crunch", or cheap supermarket boose, or poor management or even the greed of the big brewers.

One of the main factors in pub viability is (as quoted in the housing market) "location, location, location".

Since Asda moved it's supermarket across to another quarter of our town (South Shields) there has been a noticeable fall-off in custom at The Wouldhave, which for years has enjoyed a site adjacent to the old Asda store, which is now closed and deserted. The whole axis of the town has changed and shoppers no longer pass the pub on their way to the supermarket.

Yesterday, I was in The Wouldhave at lunch time and I counted only fourteen customers besides myself and my wife. There used to be many more than twice that number.

Asda can hardly be blamed, but it's a disaster for the pub.

The Great Rip-Off goes on

2009-06-15T02:29:00.000-07:00

Since my son, Stonch, bought the lease of a pub in London, I have been idly considering whether to get into the business myself - after all, it could be a bit of an adventure (a late mid-life crisis?).
But I am appalled at the bum deals being offered by the big brewers who have a stranglehold on pub ownership in this benighted and too-docile country.
For instance, The Allison Arms, a pub well off the beaten track in Jarrow, where you'd have to work really hard to build up any kind of regular business, is being offered at over £18,000 for a 5-year occupancy. Not even a lease, mark you! And the mug who took this on would have to pay them rent for the premises, besides giving them a cut of the takings by being tied to buying their beer at their inflated prices!
But they are running out of mugs and all over the country, good pubs are closing down because of the big brewers' greed.
We are losing a precious aspect of our heritage. Can nothing be done to reverse the decline before it is too late?
It may be time for people to start petitioning the Government to begin issuing new licenses en masse, sanctioning a new wave of public houses, leaving the big brewers with dead assets on their hands.
That would fettle the greedy buggers.

The End of Rum 'n Egg Bars

2009-06-01T05:56:00.000-07:00

I am reliably informed that these great institutions finally died out in the 1920s, when the shipbuilding industry hit its great slump.

The Naval Limitation Treaty had been signed by all major nations, severely cutting back on warship production and world trade was slowing down after the postwar boom, hence fewer merchant vessels were also being built.

A reader of mine, themaninthemoon, has sent in this wonderfully atmospheric photo of River Drive, near Readhead's Shipyard, where the Rum 'n Egg bar once served its early morning repast to the hurrying hordes.

The Beer Party?

2009-05-27T01:55:00.000-07:00

I have just received my ballot paper for the European Elections (how I wish we could get out of the damn' thing, then we would have less exploiticians and less bother voting) and was startled to see how many parties were fielding candidates. Really, we are fast becoming a Banana Republic!
I was a little disappointed, however, to find that there was no Beer Party candidate standing. If there is such a party I hereby offer myself as a candidate for future elections.
My manifesto, if elected, is to try all beers throughout Europe (at taxpayers' expense) and send back reports via this blog to the beer-drinking public.

Girls Allowed

2009-05-25T02:13:00.000-07:00

Further to my previous article, about the "gentleman's buffet", the last bastion of male chauvinism was once the workingmen's clubs.
In my local club in Primrose, Jarrow, ladies were only allowed in the "lounge". All other parts of the club were banned to them until government regulations forced changes to be made.
Oddly enough, the consequence has been a deterioration in the behaviour of the "gentlemen" and much more trouble than in former times.

The "Gentleman's Buffet"

2009-05-22T10:56:00.000-07:00

One of my regular readers, themaninthemoon, asked me recently if I knew what a "gentleman's buffet" was. You can still occasionally see this legend engraved on the glass doors of some of our oldest pubs.
Well, it was room in which men could talk "freely", as women were barred. Not possible nowadays, of course, with all our equal opportunity legislation.
In effect, it was a room in which "man's talk", replete with the most colourful swearing, could be enjoyed.
Actually, I think it originated in pubs which catered for commercial travellers, who were renowned for their dirty stories and coarse sense of humour. Those of you who saw the T.V series Pennies from Heaven may remember scenes where the salesman Arthur and his friends met in the gentleman's buffet to swap jokes etc.
Bar managers used to make sure that only their fiercest, most experienced barmaids served in the gentleman's buffet, battleaxes who had heard it all before.
Got that, you f***ing c*nts?

Was this a Rum 'n Egg Bar?

2009-05-18T08:38:00.000-07:00

I have been informed by a friend of mine that the premises now used as McNulty Offshore's Offices was once a Rum 'n Egg Bar.
Certainly it is in a likely location, being along by the River Tyne and in close proximity to what was once Readhead's Shipyard.
But when I went to look at it and to take photographs, I could see only one doorway.

The long thin frontage WAS indeed very reminiscent of the Rum 'n Egg Bar I remembered seeing in Howdon during my wild and demented youth (see my previous blog), but I couldn't get away from the fact that there was only one door.

But look again at the second picture (below), taken from the other side of building. Is that the hint of a bricked-up former doorway in the left hand side of the frontage? Look at the curve of the wooden boarding above.

I rest my case.

Rum 'n Egg bars

2009-05-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

During Tyneside's heyday as a shipbuilding area there were a number of Rum 'n Egg bars near the shipyard gates. One still existed in Howdon in the 1950s and was pointed out to me by a pensioner who remembered these historic institutions very well.
Apparently these pubs had a long thin bar fronting the street with a doorway at either end. By tradition, you entered at one end, progressed along the bar and exited by the other door.
Lined up along the bar were rows of glasses of strong dark rum and a (peeled) boiled egg on a saucer. This was breakfast for the shipyard workers, who began work so early in the morning that they had merely bundled out of bed and rushed off to work with nothing in their bellies. It must have been very invigorating for the workers as the neat rum hit their stomach - a real awakener!
The old bloke told me that the barman watched like a hawk as the shipyard workers dashed through, each slamming down a tanner (sixpence in old money) on the bar before throwing down the rum at a gulp and departing, munching on their egg. It was all done on the run, no-one lingered or even stopped at the bar or the flow would have been broken.
How I would like to experience a Rum 'n Egg bar today!
It was part of a whole world of working-class culture which has been forgotten.

The Fleet at the Gunmakers

2009-05-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

My son Stonch, who runs The Gunmakers pub just off the Clerkenwell Road, was very excitedly telling me recently that he had heard the Fleet River rushing through a drain near his pub.
There had been heavy rain in the preceding days and the old river, now well and truly buried beneath London's streets and part of the Victorian sewer system, was swollen to a noisy rushing subterranean flood.
Over the centuries, this venerable river, to quote Barton's "Lost Rivers of London", had declined "from a river to a brook, from a brook to a ditch, and from a ditch to a drain".
Rising on Hampstead Heath, it formed a tidal inlet to the Thames as much as 600 feet wide at the time of the Romans and ancient anchors were discovered in its bed when it was enclosed by the Victorians. In actual fact, its name is taken from the Anglo-Saxon word "fleet", which means a tidal inlet capable of floating boats.
Nowadays it carries much used beer down to the Thames and that certainly floats my boat, my friend!

The Robin Hood, Primrose

2009-05-04T04:02:00.000-07:00

Last night I was summoned to The Robin Hood to see my brother and many other prime boosers of the family. The Robin Hood is an historic pub which stands on the old turnpike road from Newcastle to the coast on the south bank of the Tyne. There has been a pub on this site since Elizabethan times at the latest and it sits in a quite picturesque dip of the land beside the River Don. Nowadays it is run by the Jarrow Brewery and, until recently, they brewed their beers there before transferring all brewing to The Maltings, their new premises in South Shields (see my previous blogs).

Anyway, I sank a few really first class pints of "Rivetter", a blonde, hoppy beer with a great head and lovely aftertaste while my brother regaled us with jokes which he had picked up in the prison service. Before he retired a couple of years ago, he was a Deputy Governor at The Scrubs. I know from a previous life, when I was the bar cellarman at The Duke of Cornwall opposite Brixton Jail, that lots of jokes originate in prisons where the guys have nothing else to do but make them up. The Prison Officers who frequented the bar in those days could keep you laughing for hours until your face ached. I had to ban joke-telling on a few occasions when I could stand no more of it!

The Gunmakers, Clerkenwell

2009-04-30T02:15:00.000-07:00

At last I managed to find the time and energy to go down to London to see my son's pub, The Gunmakers, and I certainly have no cause to regret it.
The atmospheric old premises exudes character and is all that a pub ought to be. Tucked away off the main roads, it is a haven of peace and tranquillity. No raucous music disturbs the free-flowing conversation in the cosy little front bar and there are two rooms further through the pub where seclusion can be had for those seeking it.
Ghosts of the thousands who have frequented the place over the century of its existence seem to fill the place too, so that it is possible to sit alone, contemplating the world, without feeling lonely in the least. In any case, there is always the much-travelled Peter, ensconsed in his corner, who radiates bonhomie, is willing to strike up a conversation with anyone and is full of anecdotes and wit.
My son being a connoisseur of real ale, it is not necessary to say how good the beer is, but I can certainly recommend the Bateman's XXXB, of which I imbibed many pints. Equally good is the food, Chef Sebastian's fiery peppered steak sandwiches taking the "cordon blue" as far as my palate was concerned.
Roll on the next time I visit the City, so that I can get back to The Gunmakers for another session.

Consett

2009-04-23T02:39:00.000-07:00

I was in Consett the other day (yes, actually voluntarily!) and was impressed by the number of pubs which still exist in that poor, Thatcher-ravaged township.
Just over 20 years ago, the steelworks was ruthlessly closed, throwing half the town out of work, but it appears that the community survived. As there is still very little employment in the area, and even less money, I wonder what their secret is. How do they keep their pubs open? Do the town council impose a local bylaw on the population that they must visit a different pub every day, for instance?
Whatever the circumstance, it was good to see that the "hillbillies" are keeping up the tradition of the good old English pub. Good luck to them.

A waste of a good pub

2009-04-04T06:48:00.000-07:00

Reading my son's blog (Stonch), I notice that he mentions certain sites and premises which would be ideal for a pub.

Actually, it often strikes me that there are some pubs which are a complete waste of a good building.

Take The Britannia in my home town of South Shields, for instance. What a beautiful building it is, but what a lousy pub! They serve no real ales and the notice board which invites you to "watch live sport here" is a con. I went in there last summer to watch the cricket and was told that they had discontinued Sky Sports, as it was too expensive.

It's a crying shame as the site is ideal too, directly opposite the magnificent Edwardian Town Hall in the centre of the town.

To celebrate the days when South Shields was a great sea port, a Great Lantern from the stern of a sailing ship adorns the entranceway.

Pubs like The Britannia will soon be as extinct as sailing ships.

And they deserve to be.

The Gaslight

2009-03-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

Here's one we can't blame the pub chains for (not even Wetherspoon's)!

The Gaslight, a venerable old pub in Jarrow, is being demolished to make way for the new Tyne Vehicle Tunnel.

Of course, it has only been The Gaslight for twenty years or so. Before that, in a previous lifetime, it was The Tunnel Tavern, a name which celebrated its proximity to the Tyne Pedestrian Tunnel, an institution which boasts the longest escalator in the world. During those bad old days of the 80's it became principally known as a hang-out for dropouts and drug addicts.

But painted on the rear of the building in bold Victorian signboard lettering was its TRUE identity - The Commercial.

Back in the 1890s, during its heyday, The Commercial was so named because it lay at the bottom of Commercial Road, just before the Tyne Ferry Landing, and was frequented by commercial travellers as they plied back and forwards across the Tyne (shades of Arthur from Pennies from Heaven).

The lettering remained for over a hundred years, finally disappearing sometime in the 1990s.

No matter, for now the whole pub is due to disappear.

Pub Management : The big British rip-off.

2009-03-25T08:45:00.000-07:00

I see my son Stonch has been laying the blame for the rash of recent pub closures at Wetherspoon's door.
Actually, it's about time the whole issue of pub ownership and management was tackled in this country. The big pub chains have been ripping their publicans off for years.
Not content with charging enormous up-front sums for leases on the pubs they own, the big pub chains have the nerve to then charge rent for the premises on top of that. They also dictate that the lessor "keep the standard of the pub up to their specification", so that a publican is not even allowed to decorate his own pub without their approval.
Finally, and by far the worst imposition on the person foolish enough to lease a premises from them, they "tie" the pub to their own beer supplies, charging the lessor inflated prices for their stock and fining him/her if he/she buys elsewhere.
I understand that the E.U is looking into the whole question of pub ownership and management in the U.K.
About time! It's a wonder that these crooks have been allowed to get away with it for so long.

The Lingering Aura

2009-03-18T02:00:00.000-07:00

I gave up adding to this blog over 4 months ago. I decided that it was a waste of time as I was only getting 30 or 40 hits a day and the number was not growing. Since then, I have been amazed to see that I still get roughly the same number of hits each day, even though I have added nothing.
Is it a sort of "lingering aura" as I fade into the distance?
Or could it be that the "statcounter" device is untrue and gives a blog a "false floor" to sustain it?

How is it I don't know The Queen?

2008-11-11T10:47:00.000-08:00

During my camping and tramping years of the 1980s, I once spent a night in the High Pennine town of Alston. After pitching my tent (with permission) at the ruined mill down by the river, I set off on a round of the pubs and ended up at the "top of the town", The Swan.
There was a guy sitting there looking very grumpy and depressed, so I tempted him into conversation and it turned out that he was a landscape gardener of sorts, a designer of water features. Apparently he was in the Pennines looking for ideas and inspiration.
His name was Dougie Knight and he told me that he was responsible for designing the artificial waterfall and water displays at the Chelsea Flower Show each year. In fact, the Show was coming round again soon and he gave me his card, and wrote down the date that the Show would be televised.
He said that he would meet The Queen again there and that each year they had a little chat together. This was all true, by the way, as I did remember to watch it on T.V.
On the following morning, as I was having breakfast at the little cafe in the ancient Market Square, which is reputed to be the highest market place in Britain, I was sharing a table with an elderly couple. By way of conversation, I told them about my meeting with Dougie Knight. When I came to the bit about The Queen, I noticed the old lady giving her husband many digs and kicks and urging him to "go on, tell him!"
Eventually, the old bloke spoke up. He knew The Queen very well, he said, having been a member of a platoon of soldiers whose sole duty during the early part of WW2 was to guard the "Royal Children". Naturally, they spent many hours in each other's company and The Queen addressed them all by their first names. He still got a Christmas card off her each year!
What a co-incidence, could you believe it?
When I got home, I was telling my family and couldn't help bursting out with "how is it I don't know The Queen? Every bugger else does!"
With characteristic lack of sympathy, my eldest son replied;
"Get yourself back to Alston, somebody might introduce you."

The Mountain Marathon

2008-10-28T06:25:00.000-07:00

The absurd media furore over the recent Mountain Marathon event (competitors are meant to endure extreme conditions and to spend the night on the mountain) reminded me of the time I took part in it over twenty years ago.
Two man teams participated and, since the starting time was at some ungodly hour in the morning, my mate and I turned up the night before and camped near the starting line. Some enterprising bloke had set up a makeshift bar in a nearby barn, where flat beer was being sold at inflated prices.
My mate Billy advised that we should have "a couple of pints before turning in to help us sleep". After more than a couple, I dossed down around midnight but Billy stayed on "for a nightcap" which lasted until after two in the morning.
Needless to say, he was in a terrible state the next day, hoying up behind every bush, and we slipped further and further behind in the race. It was all down to somebody splashing milk on to his breakfast, he explained (apparently he is allergic to milk) and nothing whatsoever to do with the eight pints and four whiskies he had consumed the night before.
Anyway, by the time we arrived at the first day's finish line, all the decent flat tent pitches were gone in the valley of the overnight camp site and we had to camp on a slope halfway up the hillside. During the night it hammered down with rain and, in the delirium of my exhausted slumbers, I was vaguely aware of howls and cries of distress from the valley below, but I didn't get up to investigate.
On the following morning, I saw how lucky we had been to have arrived so late.
The latrine trenches had overflowed and washed down into the valley among the tents. It was like a flow of yellow lava and many people had been virtually submerged as they slept!
Rock on, Billy, have as many pints as you like.

Stonch's Descent into Hell

2008-10-26T02:56:00.000-07:00

After our highly successful afternoon visit to the Big Lamp Brewery in Newburn, I overplayed my hand by taking my beer-expert son Stonch to the Maltings, home of the Jarrow Brewery.
I have to say in my own defence that all of my previous visits have been in the calm of midweek afternoons and early evenings, when I had a very favourable impression of the place.
But Saturday night was hell.
The place was packed with people drinking foreign lagers and there were very few real-ale drinkers at all in the place.
Two old guys, laden with sound equipment, were endlessly tuning-up and proving they could count over the microphone (they had the nerve to describe themselves as an "accoustic" band, by the way), every now and again giving forth a riffle of music ("this is what you're going to get, folks, can you possibly wait for it?").
When these ageing would-be pop stars finally got going (after a full HOUR of tuning-up), the amazing thing was that their sound balance was all to hell. They might as well have just walked in off the street, plugged themselves in and started without any preamble.
Anyway, they drove us out of the place

The Descent of Stonch

2008-10-25T11:33:00.000-07:00

My son, the famous Stonch, descended on us this weekend to check out the Big Lamp Brewery and as many other real ale haunts as he could cram into a boosy whirlwind tour.
Consequently, I learned many of the fashionable expressions of London youth. Apparently one "canes" beers in order to become "lashed". Well, I won't spoil his thunder by discussing the beers we downed, except to say that the birch grew red hot with the severity of the caning and I myself became more lashed than Spartacus and his mates ever were!
Oh yes, and next time I visit the Big Lamp, I will definitely order the mince and dumplings.

Salopian Oracle

2008-10-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

Today I had the marvellous experience of trying a pint of Salopian Oracle at my local Wetherspoon. The beer was excellently well-kept, clear as a bell and retained its head all the way down the glass as I drank it. It had a VERY hoppy taste and, as such, was refreshingly sharp and bitter, but with a lovely flavour and aftertaste.
At 4.0% strength, this golden coloured ale is just about admissable as a "session" beer, which is just as well, since I couldn't stop drinking the stuff. Normally, I don't like to get "tanked up" in the afternoon as it makes me sleepy and ruins my evening, but the Oracle was really tempting.
I can see that I will have to consult it again (and again) in the future!

Apologies to my readers for the long delay in continuing this blog, but I have been very busy completing my latest booklet "Irish Myths and Legends" (see left-hand column).

Scotchmen's Paradise

2008-10-11T06:43:00.000-07:00

Not only did these guys come from north of the border, but they were definitely Scotchmen and not just Scotsmen, they were pickled in the stuff. Striking a match near their lips constituted a grave risk of explosion!

In the 1960s, before foreign holidays became the norm, they used to decend in hordes on Whitley Bay every summer and take over the town. All the pubs were full and the promenades were heaving with drunken humanity. Special re-inforcements had to be shipped in by Newcastle City Police, six-foot "flathats" who stood no nonsense. The local lads, if they had any sense, migrated to other towns for their nights out and the girls.....well, they donned their best frocks and lived dangerously!

Yesterday I went over the river to see how things are nowadays in the once-popular resort. It was very sad. The pubs were virtually deserted, despite the fact that it was a Friday night. The old haunts like the Spanish City fairground (see pic) were closed and "under redevelopment". No more rough romances will be sparked off by a ride on the Waltzer, tough dudes sitting unconcerned without holding on as it whirled round madly.

The dance halls and cinemas, like the one pictured here, where local lasses trapped the holidaymakers (and their holiday pay) are crumbling ruins.

Oh Sunny Spain, you've got a lot to answer for!!

Great North Fun

2008-10-07T00:15:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Great North Run day, when 50,000 people descended on our town, on foot.
Unfortunately, a devil of a lot more came in cars to watch the "fun" and all the streets were gridlocked with irresponsibly parked vehicles. People double parked, churned up the grass verges and blocked driveways in their desperation to see "Our Tommy" come staggering in after a magnificent time of two hours forty.
I live close to the finish of the Run, so we have to lock our car in the garage for that day and just give up any hopes of getting the damn thing out.
It was a lovely bright day so I took a walk along to the finish to watch the first few thousand come in. I passed a bar where a crowd of full-bellied fellows were (apparently) staging a lager-drinking contest in honour of the run. They were beside themselves with excitement, chanting and gesticulating like a football crowd, bellies jiggling in time with the words of their rhapsodies.
Runners who had finished began to pass. The lager drinkers mocked them, fingers stabbing the air as they chanted their insults. The runners were dying for a pint but there was "no room at the inn". Wearily, they trudged on by.
When I got back home, the cars were clearing the avenue, bumper to bumper with horns tooting. In the gutter lay a full nappy and many other souvenirs of the Run,
Oh well.....it's only once a year.

The Alkali Hotel

2008-10-03T06:58:00.000-07:00

The Alkali is perhaps the oldest pub in Jarrow, dating back to a time (1867) when most of the town's industry was based around "The Slacks" (Jarrow Slake), a saltmarsh mudflat at the bend of the Tyne. The pub takes its name from the big alkali works which was nearby. Everyone thinks of coal, steel and shipbuilding when they think of the Tyne, but in fact one of the biggest industries was chemical production.
This is the area in which Catherine Cookson was born and featured so extensively in her books. I believe that The Alkali was mentioned in her book "The Hanging Man", though I can't confirm that as I've never read any of her works.
After the old houses were knocked down, the area took on a new lease of life as the "Bede Trading Estate" and The Alkali was able to thrive as a factory workers' lunchtime haunt. Nowadays, such are the modern safety regulations that few people have jobs which enable them to take a pint at lunchtime, so it looks like The Alkali has finally come to the end of the road. It's all boarded up and probably awaiting the bulldozers.
Another piece of our local history gone west!

Lunch at The Ridley

2008-10-02T01:43:00.000-07:00

Hardly the Ritz, but as close to it as I would like to get!

Those of you who read my blog may remember that, back in July, I discovered a grand rambling pub called The Ridley Arms whilst walking in the countryside around Newcastle Airport.

I remarked at the time that, with its calm relaxed atmosphere and understated but upmarket decor, it seemed an ideal place for businessmen to meet and conduct their affairs over lunch.

Lo and behold, I was invited there for lunch yesterday by two "business class" friends of mine. The food was excellent, well-prepared and beautifully presented and they had a selection of real ales on tap, so I was able to wash it all down with a couple of pints of Black Sheep Bitter, well-kept and as reliable as ever. There were many exotic fish dishes on the menu (the chef must specialise in fish) but, being of a plebeian disposition, I had bangers and mash with onion sauce. The prices were slightly higher than you'd expect to pay for pub fare in our neck of the woods, but nowhere near restaurant prices and certainly only half of what you'd pay for similar quality in London.

What particularly amused me was watching the serving staff. They were all lovely blonde girls, curvaceous and smiling and fetchingly attired in black tight uniforms. Where does the manager get them from? Does he clone them, I wonder? If so, I'd like to buy in on the enterprise, that's for sure!

Yes, I'd recommend The Ridley Arms to anyone who would like to take people out for a meal and impress them.

"Rupert's Ruin"

2008-09-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

Rupert's Ruin is a product of the Springhead Brewery of Newark. I tried a pint recently at my local 'Spoon, The Wouldhave, South Shields, who do great service to the real-ale drinking community by regularly rotating guest ales. The cellarman really knows his business too, and the beer is usually very well-kept, so a fair assessment can be made of it.

It's a beer with a lovely dark colour, full-bodied with an excellent head and fine "legs" as you work your way down the glass (no, I'm not talking about the barmaid).

The brewery advertises it as "full of complex flavours" and CAMRA seem to agree, but I found that the taste is completely overpowered by the bitterness. Of course, I know that "some like it bitter", but this beer is not for me, it's so bitter that I could hardly taste a thing. Bur maybe it's me, maybe it just didn't suit my palate on that particular day.

The name, by the way, celebrates the downfall of the dashing Prince Rupert of the Rhine, who fell out of favour with his uncle, King Charles I, at Newark during the Civil War.

Supermarkets, Pubs and Adolf Hitler

2008-09-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

It was supermarkets and chain stores, with the power of bulk buying, which put our corner shops out of business, and now it appears that the same thing is happening to our pubs.

The smoking ban is not the only factor which is driving many of our "locals" to the wall. Many of them, such as the one pictured here, The Brigantine, just off South Shields Market Place, just cannot compete with pub chains, who are able to keep their prices at rock-bottom by bulk buying.

So, while we all like to pay less for our pint, do we really want to see our choice of watering-holes so drastically reduced? It's a conundrum.

Incidentally, in addition to Jews (am I allowed to use that expression nowadays? Is it "politically correct"?) supermarkets were one of Adolf Hitler's pet hates and he severely restricted them when he came to power. This is further proof that he was a bit of a "mixed-up kid", since many of the small shops were actually owned by the Jews!

I wonder what he would have done about chain pubs?

"The Star", Bishop Stortford

2008-09-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

Being unwilling to be challenged about my age (see yesterday's blog), I turned away from The Black Lion and, looking over the road, spotted an equally picturesque pub, The Star. A further attraction was the offer of "2 meals for £8" and, having just come back from gourmet Italy, the prospect of some down-to-earth no frills pub grub appealed greatly.

The food turned out to be just the thing, and the service was truly excellent, but there was no real ale to be had. A pint of John Smith's Smoothflow was the best they could do and, the beer being chilled to the point of tastelessness, I can hardly recommend it. Why the devil people want their beer served so cold nowadays, I cannot understand. I switched to Guiness (NOT extra-cold) for a second pint.

The pub premises had great charm and looked authentically old, but it was a real dump! Wallpaper was peeling off the walls and it looked like it had last been decorated in the days of Oliver Cromwell.

Looking around me, however, I saw real "locals" having a friendly chat and the low buzz of conversation was very peaceful and soothing. Even when some young mothers came in with babies in buggies, I felt quite at home in the benign surroundings.

Yes, The Star could be quite a nice place if they would get some decent ale in!

Legal, but is it fair?

2008-09-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

On my way home from Italy yesterday, I was faced with a six-hour wait for my connecting flight at Stanstead. Rather than hang around that soulless place watching the immigrants streaming in, I decided to take a bus to a nearby town and visit a pub or two. Picking Bishop's Stortford simply because the bus was about to depart, I set off.

The place turned out to be quite interesting, steeped in history as it is. They have made a park around the mound on which the Norman Castle stood, dominating the town and cowing its Saxon citizens. In the later Middle Ages, the castle became the prison in which the Bishop of London locked up naughty priests. The place would be packed to the doors if it was still used for that purpose today!

Ambling off towards the town centre, I passed a very picturesque pub, The Black Lion, with a startling sign on the door reading "OVER 21's ONLY".

Well now, this may be legal, but is it fair?

After all, if the sign read "No Blacks" or "No Homosexuals", there would be hell to play and the owner would probably be prosecuted.

Why should anyone be allowed to discriminate against people just because they're young?

If they are over the legal age of 18, they should surely be allowed to drink.

Westoe Netty

2008-09-19T00:07:00.000-07:00

Bob Olley, our local Geordie artist who has become world-famous for his sculptures and paintings depicting Tyneside life, was recently honoured by The Jarrow Brewery who named a beer after one of his most famous works.

The work in question "Westoe Netty" has become an icon of the North-East, so much so that the original "netty" (public toilet) upon which he based the work has been dismantled brick by brick and transported to the Beamish Museum.

I once had a signed print of the painting but my son "Stonch" pinched it and hung it in his dining room. Complaints from his prissy London friends soon forced him to relocate it to the staircase outside his flat, however, where it hangs to this day, a constant reminder to visitors of Stonch's Northern roots.

And the beer? It was truly excellent!

The Man on the Horse at the Market Tavern

2008-09-17T00:15:00.000-07:00

The Market Tavern is in the centre of Durham City is a gourmet bar nowadays, serving quite upmarket meals for tourists. I have seen it advertised on American holiday and travel websites. Of course, it was a real down-to-earth miners' pub in the old days, a right old dump where a rough-house barney and a clip round the ear were more likely to be on the menu. In fact, the first Durham Miners' Union was formed there in the mid-nineteenth century, when such "combinations" were still against the law.

It's all the more surprising that, given its background, a statue of one of the miners' worst enemies should be plonked firmly outside its front door. The Man on the Horse is Castlereagh (pronounced Castle-Ray), who owned many of the local pits and was so hard on his workers that he earned their undying hatred. My Grandad used to spit if he were ever obliged to say the name.

Even fair-minded men of the upper classes were shocked by his heartless behaviour, so that the poet Shelley penned the following lines when he saw the statue:

"I met with Murder one fine day, he had a face like Castereagh

His eyes were dark, his lips were grim, and seven bloodhounds followed him.

Aye they were sleek, as well they might be in the very prime of life,

For one by one and two by two, he cast them human hearts to chew."

"Sports Bars"

2008-09-15T00:04:00.000-07:00

Compared to last season, there are hardly any venues in my local town of South Shields where live football can be watched on T.V.
I used always to go to a bar known locally as The Zoo, because of the rather exotic characters who frequented the place, but they don't show live sport there anymore. I'm told that it is because Sky T.V have astronomically raised their charges to levels way beyond the possible profit potential of small bars. It's a pity, because there was a great atmosphere at The Zoo, packed as it was with a standing-room-only crowd on match days. It was almost like standing on the terraces in the old days before seating was imposed on football grounds.

Still, at least The Zoo are honest and have removed all the posters which used to plaster the windows, advertising forthcoming games, unlike some other bars. I went into the bar pictured here, attracted by the huge banner displayed outside, and had already ordered my pint before I was told:
"No, we don't show the matches here anymore".

It was bloody annoying, as, no real ale being available, I was stuck with a pint of John Smiths.

Another Cast-Iron Doorman

2008-09-12T00:27:00.000-07:00

Further to my previous article about cantankerous doormen at workingmen's clubs, the toughest doorman to get past that I ever knew was a guy who kept the door at The Whiteleas Club. This club, tucked away in an obscure corner of an estate, halfway down a railway cutting, was also notoriously difficult to find.
I remember once a comedian on stage cracking the joke:
"I dunno, if the Jarmans (Germans) ever do invade, I'm coming here 'cos they'll never find me!"
Much laughter and muted applause.
"And, if they do, the doorman won't let them in."
Roars of laughter and thunderous applause.

The Old Club, Rookhope

2008-09-11T00:52:00.000-07:00

To stephen, who has contacted me by email to ask for information about The Old Club.
Your email address step131@weardalien.com does NOT work with my hotmail and my response to your request has been returned by the "postmaster" as not delivered.
Sorry, but you'll have to try to use another email address.

Off to Find the Sunshine

2008-09-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

I'm off to Italy, folks, I can't stand this rain any longer. I will be back in a fortnight's time and have left a few articles scheduled to appear during my absence.
Normal service will resume when I get back.

The Great Flood

2008-09-08T00:04:00.000-07:00

When visiting the Big Lamp Brewery last week, I passed by a pub called The Boathouse (see pic), which is right on the bank of the river.

The pub has a claim to fame because of a tenuous connection with George Stephenson, the father of railways. He worked at a pit nearby, tending the pumping engine.

Of more legitimate historical interest are the marks scored into the stonework on the side of the pub, indicating the levels reached by the water during successive inundations of the river.

The weather having been so wet this summer, I thought it quite topical to reflect on this. No matter how bad the weather has been, it has not yet approached the levels of the Great Flood of 1771, which swept away all the bridges over the Tyne, including Newcastle's medieval bridge which had many houses and shops on it, except the "new" bridge (as it then was) at Corbridge.

Standing beside the mark, I found it to be over my head and on a level with the extractor fans in the pub windows as shown in the photo above. Incredible to imagine the water reaching such a level, especially as the bank outside the pub is quite steep and the present river level some feet below the riverside footpath.

Global warming? I don't think so!

Beer at the Big Lamp

2008-09-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

When I arrived at the Big Lamp Brewery many people were sitting outside, enjoying the unaccustomed sunshine. The brewery is in a lovely setting, with no shortage of outdoor space and they even have a separate building where they offer Bed & Breakfast.

The brewery occupies part of the site of the Civil War Battle of Newburn, where the Scots forded the Tyne to ravage the North (a bit like Celtic supporters in the modern day).

When I entered the bar, the barmaid offered me a very generous "taster" (it was about a third of a pint!) of Keelman Brown and I was immediately hooked.

Heavy, creamy, tasty....heaven! How do I describe this beer? It was one of the best I have tasted in my life, but with a strength of 5.1%, it is no session beer. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop drinking the stuff, so I never even got around to trying any of the other ales on offer, even though there was a poster in the bar advertising a "tasting tray" (see pic).

"Next time" I kept thinking, whilst sunning myself and wallowing in the dark brown nectar. Some blokes near me were wallowing in sorrow for Newcastle United, and seemed to be discussing the murder of some people called Wise and Ashley. They drove the sun behind the clouds, so I went inside.

By the time I left, I was too befuddled to continue with my planned walk.

But there'll always be another day....

The Big Lamp Brewery

2008-09-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I decided to try to follow a circular walk set out in a leaflet I had picked up at the bus station. The walk would take me past the Big Lamp Brewery, so I could have a very appealing little "refreshment stop" (haw-haw) on the way.

Being confused by having taken the wrong bus to the start point, however, I arrived in the little town of Newburn with no idea where to begin. The leaflet seemed to make no sense, so I decided to fasten on one of the landmarks along the way and start from there. Of course the most congenial landmark was the Big Lamp Brewery, so I hailed down a local and received instructions on how to get there.

The Big Lamp is a marvellous place (see pic). It is the oldest micro-brewery in the North-East and was founded in 1982, more or less as a hobby. By developing the buildings of a derelict pumping-station on the North bank of the Tyne, the present brewery was gradually formed. Built up from virtually nothing, the brewery is a true testament to business enterprise, an example to everyone of what can be achieved.

What I particularly like about this brewery is that, unlike most enterprises which expand and grow complacent as their customer base increases, the quality of its products has actually improved over the years. In the mid 1980s I used to frequent one of their early outlets, The Old Fox in Felling and, quite frankly, I was not very impressed with their "home brew", as people called it. Now, as a result of hard work and experience, I would say that they are the premier microbrewery in the North East and their beers can stand comparison with anyone's, nationally.

Anyway, I've written enough for today, so I'll tell you more about the beer tomorrow.

All Power to the Doorman

2008-09-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

When I used to go regularly to Workingmen's Clubs, it always used to amuse me to witness the internal politics and the eternal struggle between the doorman and the Committee Men.
Once, when I was on a bike run deep in the heart of pitmatic Durham, I dared to wheel my bike into the Foyer of a Workingmen's Club, bearding the lion in his den as it were, and asked the doorman if he would sign me in for a drink.
"It'll cost you 50p, son" he gruffly replied, nodding towards the charity box.
"What about my bike?" says I. The surrounding estate was bandit country and I didn't dare leave the bike outside.
"Just put it up against the radiator over there, lad".
I complied and went to the toilet before going to the bar. As I emerged from the toilet, I was just in time to hear the authoritive voice of a passing Committee Man.
"Whose is this f...ing bike, get it out of here!"
This drew a rapid and belligerent reply from my benefactor, the doorman:
"You leave that bike alone, you nosy count (well, it was another word actually, which decency prevents me from writing).
"Bikes is not allowed!"
"I told the lad he could put it there, you piss off"
Embarrassed, I said:
"It's O.K, I'll shift it"
"No you won't! You go and get your pint, son (I was over 50 at the time, by the way), take no notice of this nosy b.....d."
"Bikes is against the rules!" roared the Committee Man, who had now been joined by another.

I went to the bar and peacefully enjoyed my pint, while the battle raged in the Foyer. Everyone who entered the bar had a big grin on his face. I had lit a touchpaper and the place was alive with the excitement of it all.
When I left, my bike was still there against the radiator.
As always, the doorman had won.

Dr Syntax

2008-08-31T06:17:00.000-07:00

Among the most uniquely-named pubs in Britain is a pub in Prudhoe, the Dr Syntax. The pub is one of S&N's chain pubs and, as such, is no friend to the real ale fraternity.

Attracted by the unusual name and being parched one sunny afternoon, I wandered in there recently to see what they had to offer. As far as John Smith's goes, I suppose it was a decent enough pint (any port in a storm, as we old sailors say) and the food was basic but very cheap. It seemed a good enough place for the non-discerning drinker, thought I, and I suppose there have to be such places for Saturday night revellers.

Oh yes, Dr Syntax, who was he?

Well, he was a comic character invented by the eighteenth century poet William Combe (1741-1823) who wrote a trilogy of poetical epics about his hero - "Dr Syntax in Search of the Picturesque", "In Search of Consolation" and "In Search of a Wife".

Combe, along with his hero, has disappeared into the realms of obscurity but copies of his books are still much sought-after because of the brilliant illustrations, which were the work of the famous cartoonist Thomas Rowlandson.

And, of course, he lives on in the name of Prudhoe's pub!

'Boody' Bars

2008-08-29T06:38:00.000-07:00

In 1830, a Beer Act was passed by Parliament, allowing licensed persons to open their houses to the public for the sale of beer and thus the "Public House" was born.

The Act was meant to attract trade away from the notorious "Gin Palaces" which sold noxious spirits which were ruinous to health, often even fatal.

The first Public Houses were often just terraced dwellings and so, to distinguish them from other properties in the row, the owners attempted to decorate them in such a way as to make them stand out. In addition to colourful signs, the front of the house was often clad with bright ceramic tiles and, by late Victorian times, highly decorated and beautiful Public Houses, such as the two I have pictured here, were being purpose built.

When I was a child, growing up in the Irish-influenced town of Jarrow, coloured ceramic tiles were known as "boody" and, consequently, bars decorated with such tiles were referred to as "Boody Bars".

There are very few good examples of these beautiful buildings left now in my area and, belatedly, some have been declared as "listed" buildings to prevent vandalistic owners from "modernising" them.

Too little, too late and, modern architecture being what it is, I doubt if we will ever see such interesting, lovely and ornate structures again.

The True Convert

2008-08-28T00:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday they were brewing again at the Maltings, so took my eldest son (Stonch's elder brother - maybe I should start calling him Big Stonch) along to try to introduce him to real ale. He is normally an addict of unmentionable Australian lagers, along with burgers, chips and kebabs and is presently being victimised by Conservative Party propaganda, so it was no mean task I had undertaken.

As we went up the stairs, however, the glorious smell assailed our nostrils and aroused his jaded taste-buds. We lingered on the stairhead, feigning interest in the memorabilia (see pic) while we savoured the moment.

"What's that they're brewing?" he asked as we entered and the barmaid told us it was Westoe IPA. "I'll have a crack at that" said he, without any urging. Since he has recently changed his "career" and is once more a student, I was paying, so I ordered up two pints.

"It's not bad, that" sez he, seriously bending the elbow at the bar as we made short work of the first pint. "What're we having next?"

I suggested we try the Rivet Catcher and he was even more impressed. He liked the bitterness of the brew and I told him that it was the type and strength of the hops which made it that way.

After a pint of Caulker, he was fast becoming a true convert and expressed the opinion that he wouldn't mind going to one of these CAMRA Beer Festivals, next time it was in town.

"Yeah" I thought "I'll bring my wallet".

Brewing at The Maltings

2008-08-22T00:20:00.000-07:00

I was fortunate enough to visit The Maltings yesterday on a day that they were brewing a new batch of beer. A wonderful aroma filled the bar, which is directly above the Brewery, fuelling the desire for ale. I had been amused by the sign (see pic) at the corner of the staircase and needed no further urging to belly up to the bar.

Consequentially, although I had only called in for a casual pint (ha ha, famous last words....), I ended up staggering home after sampling several. I had first class pints of the Jarrow Breweries' Rivet Catcher, Swinging Gibbet and Westoe IPA, besides a guest ale from North Yorkshire's Wold Top Brewery, Wold Gold. This lovely light, fruity beer, made from goldings hops, is deceptively strong (4.8%), so beware!

I must have felt in the mood for light beers that day, because I also particularly enjoyed the Westoe IPA, a very light summery ale which went down dangerously smoothly. I thought it ironical that IPAs, or India Pale Ales, were brewed especially for the troops and exported to India in the days of the Raj, conventional heavy beers being considered dangerous to their health in the hot climate.
My Grandad was out there at the time (1890-99) serving with the Highland Light Infantry (he's the tallest bloke at the back in the pic) and I'll bet he sank many a pint of this golden nectar.

He was fighting the Afghans at the time, on the North West Frontier.
Some things never change.

Bar Talk 3

2008-08-21T00:03:00.000-07:00

In the late 1960's the shipowners conceived of the daft idea of putting bars aboard ships. The idea was to stop secret "cabin drinking", which was considered to be responsible for alcoholism among ship's crews.
Of course it didn't work and just caused a lot of trouble for all concerned.

I remember one occasion when I was a very junior officer, that the Captain came to the bridge when I was on watch. He was cowardly sort of bloke who was always sloping the shoulders and dumping tough jobs on other people, so I wasn't surprised when he said;
"There's too much noise from the crew's bar. Go down and tell the buggers to close it right now".
Imagine that, telling a crowd of hairy-assed sailors to stop drinking!

Anyway, I went down and found riotous proceedings taking place. An old sailor called H.P Mason was staggering between the tables singing tunelessly at the top of his voice. He was clutching an empty beer can stuck on the end of a broomstick for a mike. Others were regarding him sourly and hurling abuse.
Meekly I suggested to the Bosun that the Captain wanted him to close the bar. He told me to f... off, but he said it very politely.
I had just returned to the bridge and told the Captain that they were "closing soon" when a tremendous uproar broke out, with cries and howls and sounds of splintering furniture. I scuttled back down and found a huge free-for-all taking place. H.P was somewhere at the bottom of the pile and the Bosun was sitting calmly watching the melee.
"What's going on" I asked.
The Bosun sighed.
"It's H.P's fault. As usual, he was hogging the mike".

The Eclectic 'Spoon

2008-08-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

One of the things I like best about Wetherspoons is their eclectic taste in their choice of premises.

In the ancient market town of Hexham, for instance, the local 'Spoon is housed in an old cinema, The Forum. Many of the old cinema's features have been retained, such as the split-level floor leading down from the former foyer, and I imagine it is quite a nostalgic trip for some of the older folks who visit the pub.
Anyway, I notice that it is often packed in the afternoon with senior citizens. No doubt they are enjoying a sort of "race memory" ritual of the matinee!

In Durham, the 'Spoon is the Water House, an historic building which was once the headquarters of the Weardale & Shildon Water Company. There is a plaque on the wall commemorating the fact and a lively pub it was indeed when I visited it recently.

In the bar, there was a big party of deaf people (sorry if this term is no longer "politically correct" - I am constantly being bollicked by my sons on this subject) and it was very interesting to watch them signing. I've never seen such a quiet argument and what amused me most was that everyone seemed to be "talking" at once. Mind you, I think that everyone was "listening" too!

I sat back and enjoyed two excellent pints, Black Moss and 5th Anniversary from the High House Brewery of Matfen, Northumberland. Both went down a treat and I would recommend these brews to anyone. In fact, I must get up into Northumberland as soon as possible to hunr down any other brews that this little "cottage brewery" produces.

A real treat to look forward to!

Steamboat Days

2008-08-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

I remember the days when The Steamboat at Mill Dam was a disreputable sailor's bar. They used to have "lock-ins" (there were strict licensing laws then), when the heavy drape curtains were drawn and "guests" used to drink long and deeply into the night.

My brother was at one such gathering which was so crowded that getting into the rather small toilet became a problem and a queue had formed.

Being unable to wait, he slipped out into the back lane (on the right of the accompanying picture) to relieve himself under the stars but, when he tried to get back in, he found that the latched door had closed behind him.

Disaster! No amount of tapping at the windows or banging on the door drew any response from the riotous company within, who assumed that he was a latecomer trying to horn in.

Finally, spotting an upstairs window slightly open, our hero was shinning up the drainpipe when he felt a tug at his trouserleg and there was a policeman standing below, crooking a finger at him. Despite his protests, he was arrested and banged up in the cells overnight.

Fortunately for him, he was released without charge the next morning when the pub manager came round to explain that he was "a friend of his who had left his coat in the pub".

Actually, I suspect that the police knew very well what had happened (after all, some off-duty policemen occasionally attended the "lock-ins") but they were "firing a shot across the bows" of the pub manager, letting him know that things were going a bit too far. There were no more "lock-ins" at The Steamboat for a while after that.

As for my brother, when he left the sea he spent many years in jail - on the other side of the bars!

He retired recently as a deputy governor of Wormwood Scrubs.

CAMRA's 2nd South Shields Beer Festival

2008-08-17T02:00:00.000-07:00

The Festival was held in a dusty old Masonic Hall and I entered with trepidation, fearing to meet men in strange garb with their trouser legs rolled up.

To my amazement, the place was fairly full of normal-looking people. Not only that, but there were very few beards or pregnant-looking men in sight. This couldn't be a CAMRA Festival, thought I, I've landed in the wrong place.
Beam me up, Scotty, toot de sweet, and the tooter the sweeter!

But the line of beefy guys behind the row of hand-pumps at the bar reassured me, so I bought my tickets, hired my glass and joined the fray.

I was soon in deep conversation with a pleasant couple who had motored up from the monkey-free zone of Hartlepool, about forty miles away, especially for the Festival (what some people will do for beer!).

They were Mike and Dorothy (see pic) and he told me he was a fiddler.
I said that he didn't look much like a Councillor, but he explained that he meant a violinist, a violin teacher at that. Fascinating stuff. He was one of those guys who disbelieves everything you say, but he laughed at my jokes, so I forgave him. Suddenly a guy who looked like Rasputin came in and we all felt finally convinced that this WAS a beer festival after all (doubts had lingered, tormenting our minds).

Meanwhile the beer was having its effect and a feeling of benign well-being set in. First I tried Orkney Red MacGregor, a bitter, fruity, hoppy ale. Nice enough, but not quite to my taste. Next came Thornbridge Jaipur, an IPA and, as such, light and pleasantly sweetish with a bitter aftertaste. It rather "grew" on me. Then I tried the Houghton Brewery's new version of that old favourite Double Maxim, which the now defunct Vaux Brewery used to produce. It was a pleasant enough drink with a distinctive taste, but did NOT compare with old "Double-Max" that I knew and loved. It certainly did not have as much body and was nowhere near as creamy as its predecessor.
After that I had an excellent glass of Nethergate Old Growler, a full-bodied porter, dark and powerful with a sort of coffee aftertaste. Finally, and best of all, was Ironbridge Brewery's Shropshire Gold. Now there's a session beer for you, cool, sharp and light. I had found my ideal and I got no further........

No smoking, no pubs?

2008-08-16T00:51:00.000-07:00

I am becoming a bit disturbed about how many pubs are being forced out of business in my local area. Recently, ALL four pubs which once served the Boldon Lane area of South Shields have closed down.

One has already been demolished and is being replaced by residential units. The other three are pictured here, one having been converted to a Fast Food Takeaway and the other two being up for grabs at any price. All boarded up and silent, they make a pathetic sight.

Now some would say good riddance, the pubs were seedy and served a run-down area of the town. But variety is the spice of life, say I, and I used to occasionally enjoy going back to my disreputable roots and visiting again the haunts of my youth when I was an under-age drinker.

It's very sad for me to see them gone, like a part of my life disappearing forever.

Now I know that there have been tremendous pressures on the pub trade in recent years which have led to a steady shrinkage in the business. But it can hardly be a coincidence that the rate of pub closures has accelerated since the no-smoking ban came into force.

At the time, I was greatly in favour of the legislation. It was marvellous to come home after a night out and to be able to actually hang up your clothes in the wardrobe rather than the back garden, but now I'm not so sure.

I'm beginning to wonder which is better - no smoking or no pubs?

The Steamboat, South Shields

2008-08-15T00:56:00.000-07:00

When I visited The Steamboat recently they were having a weekend beer festival and I was impressed with the list of guest ales on sale. As can be seen from the blackboard pictured here, there was a really good choice of fine ales on offer, with a nice balance and variety.

I sampled three, Butcombe Gold, a lovely blonde hoppy beer I had had before and liked, Cornish Mutiny and Hancock's HB. All were clear as a bell, cool and very well kept, but I think that the Hancock's HB took first prize on the day. I cannot say the same for my photography, as I seem to have suffered from the shakes when I pictured the blackboard. All I can say is that I took the photo after I had drunk the beer!

The atmosphere of the pub, with all the "olde worlde" nicknacks and photos, was great and there was good, relaxed conversation to be had for the asking.
This is the favourite watering hole of the locally-famous "Erasmus Bottle", raconteur and storyteller extraordinaire so, as a bonus to drinkers, a very entertaining free show is sometimes to be had.

An old bar dog lay across the doorway panting (it was a hot day), eyeing me enviously as I sank my beer.

It was a dog's life for him, but for me the world seemed a great place to be in.

Stonch : Where it all began

2008-08-14T00:35:00.000-07:00

For those of you who follow the very popular beer blog of my son "Stonch", I thought you might like to see and hear about the pub in which he first worked and learned about the bar trade.

The pub in question is The Steamboat in South Shields (see pic) and it is located in the ancient former seafaring quarter of the town called Mill Dam. Here, in days gone by, sailors would revel just yards from the gangways of their ships and the old cobbles of the street outside the pub have witnessed much riotous behaviour and skullduggelry.

Even in my young seafaring days in the 1960s, the pub was still a sailor's bar and my brother and I (who was also at sea in those days) had many a disreputably good time there. Enough said on that topic.

Nowadays, though disappointingly respectable, the pub still retains something of the atmosphere of those more interesting times. Tomorrow I'll take you there.

The new-born beer

2008-08-12T00:15:00.000-07:00

When I was in Italy in June, I visited the beautiful University town of Urbino.
During term-time, the population of this ancient walled city triples as thousands of stylish young people throng its streets, bars and cafes.
Just walking through the crowded, narrow medieval streets at about 6 p.m, the time of the passeggiata, is an experience never to be forgotten. At this time, everyone is out, dressed at their best, like peacocks displaying their attractions. And in the case of some of these young people, the attractions are considerable!

In the main square, however, before the Palazzo Ducale, there was a hideous advertising blight.

A new beer was being launched and a massive nest from which a newly-hatched bottle of ale was emerging had been plonked down, ruining the lovely view.

"Che bruto!" said many who passed by, but it was effective, I had to admit. After all, you couldn't help but notice the damn thing!

The Frequent Imbiber

2008-08-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

My previous article should have included a picture of Steve, the "frequent imbiber" I met at The Alum House. I'd hate to disappoint the bloke, so here's a nice shot of him occupying his accustomed seat up at the bar. He is the well-proportioned gent on the left.

The Alum House once adjoined the historic residence of Sir William Hamilton, a Merchant Adventurer who, in order to fulfill a religious vow, locked himself away in a single room with curtains drawn and spent the last twenty years of his life in this self-imposed prison.

It is said that the floorboards were worn into a groove by his pacing up and down from corner to corner.

Similarly, the floorboards in the Alum House are worn into a groove leading to Steve's seat at the bar........

Sorry, mate, I couldn't resist that!

The Alum House, South Shields

2008-08-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

The Alum House is the oldest licensed premises in South Shields. Some parts of the building date back to the seventeenth century and the quaint and higgledy-piggledy layout of the interior reflects its antiquity.

The alehouse stood on what was originally Alum Ham, the public landing place where scullermen once gathered to row passengers across the Tyne. The river was more of a thoroughfare in those days than a barrier, and intercourse between North and South Shields was much more frequent.

On the day I visited, there were no fewer than EIGHT real ales on tap and they all looked very well-kept. I sat up to the bar and drank three pints of Thwaites' Lancaster Bomber. I had only intended to have the one, but the beer was so well-kept and tasty that I couldn't help myself (know the feeling?).

There was a bloke called Steve there with whom I fell into conversation and I could tell by his shape and style that he was a frequent imbiber. He was knocking back Wychwood Brewery's Beewyched like it was going out of style and kept urging me to partake of it. I've had the stuff before and found it a bit sweet for my palate ("honeyed" is the right word), although I'm sure it's a fine pint for some people's taste.

Anyway, it was a fine afternoon and I promised myself that I'd return some evening for a session, taking you with me, and write more about the place.

I fought a Grizzly Bear with one arm tied behind back

2008-08-04T00:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my brother turned up from Cyprus, where he now lives. He was wearing horns and a tail and dragged my off to the Ben Lomond Hotel in Jarrow, the town of our birth. There we found a beautiful cask of the Old Speckled Hen and we set to work to empty it. After about the sixth pint, I was "feeling no pain" (as we used to say in my seafaring days) and I remember very little of further proceedings.
What I do remember is that, glancing round the bar, I saw many of my contemporaries, blokes who had been real tough guys when I was at school, the sort who used to take your marbles off you. They were all knacked, hollow-chested, coughing, and walking with sticks. I felt that I could wrap them all up single-handedly (the beer was talking to me). Fortunately, I didn't try, otherwise I suspect that I would be writing this from hospital.
By the way, the headline is from an old Mad magazine and the article began:
"How the devil it got its arm tied behind its back I don't know......etc, etc, etc".

Emperor's New Clothes

2008-07-31T07:54:00.000-07:00

I've just got back from The Wouldhave, my local Wetherspoons, where I had a couple of pints of Titanic Red Ensign, a lovely dark beer with excellent body and a sweetish, rich taste. And, furthermore, it cost only £1.69p a pint!

Of course, if I was a true "real ale" officiado, I could have despised my local 'Spoon and drank a far inferior pint at twice the price at one of the "true" real ale pubs in my home town.

Sometimes when I read and hear the remarks of some members of the real-ale fraternity, I wonder if I'm on the same planet. What is it that some people have got against Wetherspoons - or any other chain pub, for that matter? If the place serves good beer at a very good price, why should it be shunned and despised?

The picture which accompanies this rant is that of an emperor wearing his most wonderful clothing.

The Country Park, Penshaw.

2008-07-28T03:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to Penshaw, to get up close to the famous Monument and also, of course, to get up close to a couple of pints of beer at a nearby pub (more of that later). The Monument atops a prominent hill which can be seen almost all over Durham and South Northumberland.
There are many legends concerning its origin, one being that the local squire was so good to his tenants, keeping their rents low etc, that they decided to erect a monument to him. When they were halfway through the construction, the squire asked them what they were up to and they told him. His response was to say that, if they could afford to waste money on such a folly, they could afford to pay him more, so he put all their rents up! Needless to say, the Monument was never completed.
Anyway, the National Trust have spoiled it all by putting up a plaque declaring that , in reality, the Monument commemorates a Grand Master of the Freemasons called Thomas, Earl of Zetland. Blooming spoilsports!!

It was a lovely day, with an almost cloudless sky, and the Monument was surrounded by a most colourful display of wild flowers. The weather this year has been wonderful for the vegetation here in the North of England, if not for the people.

It’s quite a toil to get to the top of the hill so I was really ready for a pint when I finally came back down. Nearby is a fantastic development, which has been landscaped over acres of former pit land, and there is a pub, The Country Park to serve it.
In I went at the double, almost treading on my tongue (I must have looked like a Spaniel) and was most gratified to find that they had that fine brew, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, on tap. The pint they served me was a bit cloudy, but as tasteful as ever, and I was very impressed with the friendliness of the bar staff. What impressed me more was the segregation of the pub, a spacious room being set aside for drinkers, with no meals or children allowed in. Marion and I sat in a lovely window seat and enjoyed a couple of drinks in perfect peace. This is how it should be in a pub.
All landlords please note!

He was in the Northumberland Fusiliers

2008-07-23T01:37:00.000-07:00

Conversations overheard in pubs whilst silently drinking are often very interesting, especially those overheard in country pubs.
I remember some years ago when I was in Allendale Town at the King’s Head, a Marston’s pub which serves a reliably fine pint, that I overheard a tale about a certain member of the Royal family who had just days before visited the place. This HRH, who is very interested in farming and country affairs, had been looking around the estate of Lord Allendale and had called at the King’s Head to have a crack on with the local farmers before leaving the area.
A beefy, grizzled old farmer in a check shirt was telling the tale:
“Aye, the lad was talking to Big Alisdair and he was really enjoying the conversation, but this poncy fella kept coming in and saying things like ‘really, sir, we must be leaving’”.
Growls and grumbles all round.
“Well, ye knaa, the lad’s really knowledgeable an’ all, he knaa’s what he’s talking about”.
Nods and general mutters of agreement.
“But this poncy bloke kept spoiling things and finally he gets hold of the lad and kind of hustles him out the bar.”
Shocked exclamations and roars of “Nivva in the world!”
“Wye, Big Alisdair followed them out and, after the lad had driven off, he gets aholt of this poncy bloke by the scruff of the neck and puts him up against the wall. ‘Ye leave that lad alone in future, he’s a friend of mine’ he says, an’ ye know what?”
“What?”
“The poncy bloke pulls his jacket apart and he’s got a gun on.”
Sensation all round and cries of disbelief.
“Wye, what did Alisdair do?”
“Nowt, man, he’s not frightened of no guns, he was in the Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The Ridley Arms, Stannington

2008-07-22T03:25:00.000-07:00

After forcing myself to leave The Mason's Arms, I set off on what proved to be quite a long tramp to Stannington, all of five miles I would say, by the winding country roads and former cart-tracks. It was, as the old bloke in the Mason's had said "a canny walk".

Before I had even left Dinnington, however, I was beset with temptation when I had to pass The Bay Horse and the village CIU club, both of which looked to be fine establishments. Never mind, there will always be another day!

The day was really bright and sunny by now, a lovely afternoon for walking, and I much enjoyed the rural scenery on either side of the road. This is barley country, the heavy clay soils of the north favouring that cereal, rather than wheat. Much of the barley used by our brewers is grown here and I rejoiced to see it thriving so well.

I passed a place called Bellasis Bridge, which crosses the River Blyth. Hereabouts there are many "Private" and "Keep out" signs, a peculiarly English obsession. In Italy, farmers and countryfolk are always pleased to see walkers and rarely let you pass without exchanging a few friendly words. In Scotland too you are legally free to walk anywhere, providing you do no damage....but NOT in England.

When I finally arrived in Stannington, I was growing footsore and was glad to call it a day. There, immediately before my rejoicing eyes, was The Ridley Arms, a huge country inn which, like so many such establishments, is more of a restaurant than a pub nowadays. Nevertheless, they didn't try to push any food on me and I was able to buy an excellent pint of Black Sheep Bitter at a reasonable price.

As I said, the place is huge, with many nooks and crannies, interesting artifacts and pictures of local scenes among the decor. There was a very calm and up-market atmosphere and I imagine that it is an ideal place to bring visitors whom you wish to impress for a business meeting or lunch. Having said that, the menu didn't interest me, as I prefer plainer fare. For gourmets, however, I'm sure the place would have a definite appeal.

I sipped my Black Sheep, had another, and enjoyed the rest before catching a bus homewards.

The Mason's Arms, Dinnington

2008-07-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

After I had visited The White Swan (see previous post), I walked on a very short distance and came in sight of what had once been the village green. And here I discovered a pub which looked more to my taste - The Mason's Arms.

They had no real ale, but I haven't exactly signed the pledge in that respect, so I settled for a pint of McEwan's Best Scotch. This dark, fruity beer, with its fine head, reminded me of my youth. Of course, in those days, all beers were real ale, delivered in wooden barrels and served through hand pumps. Despite the fact that the beer was slightly cooler than it ought to be and slightly less full-bodied than the beer I remembered, the taste was the same and brought back a flood of memories.

Memories of "spit and sawdust" old dives where no food was to be had apart from crisps and the odd pickled egg crowded into my mind as I sat and drank in good company. This was a real pub with real people in it and I certainly felt more at home there than I had in The White Swan.
A general conversation was being held in which anyone could participate. Someone asked if I was walking far and I told them my plans to push on to the next big village, Stannington.
"It's a canny walk to Stannington, mind you," I was informed, "but there's a pub there, The Ridley Arms."
The familiar temptation came over me to abandon the rest of my expedition and just knock back a few pints in The Mason Arms.
But I resisted and pressed on when I had finished my pint.

The White Swan, Dinnington Village

2008-07-15T01:40:00.000-07:00

The weather being at last a bit more reliable, I decided to take a stroll around the small villages which lie around Newcastle Airport. After rather a nightmare walk along a surprisingly busy minor road leading northwards, cars zipping past me at tremendous speeds, I came to a little country lane leading to Dinnington Village. Why does everyone drive so fast along country roads? I even had some prick who flashed his lights at me as he bore down at about 80 mph in his 4x4, as though I had no right to be a pedestrian, encroaching on "his" domain.

But soon my spirits were restored by the leafy lanes, resplendent with wild flowers and venerable old trees. This part of Northumberland is flat, broad, rich agricultural land under big skies - it lifts the spirits.

As I entered Dinnington village I immediately came across the White Swan, a large sprawling building advertising good food and real ales. Nothing could have been more welcome so in I went with great alacrity. They had Black Sheep Bitter and Ruddles County on tap and I ordered a pint of Black Sheep, one of my favourite brews. After some kerfuffle, I received the answer I have grown accustomed to in my ale-wanderings.

"I'm sorry, that one's not on today".

Never mind, I tried the Ruddles County, which turned out to be a dark, fruity old-fashioned type of beer with a good head. It was none too clear, but that's the way of it with real ales. It's a mistake to think that a rather cloudy beer is undrinkable. In fact, I have read that many years ago, most real ales were a bit opaque. It was a good pint, though rather expensive for my part of the world at £2.60p. Glancing around, I could see that this was one of the "gastro-pubs" that have become a feature of the modern drinker's world. There were menus everywhere (quite pricey for bar fare) and the bar was a tiny enclave compared to the "restaurant" section. As a simple drinker, I felt a bit out of place, especially as the loaded question "Anything else?" was asked so pointedly when I ordered my ale.

A nice enough place, the White Swan, but not exactly my idea of a pub. I decided to push on and see if the village had anything else to offer.

The Golden Lion, Allendale Town

2008-07-07T01:13:00.000-07:00

Pushing my way past the smelly old bar dog, I made my way to the bar (see pic). The smelly old dog followed, fraternising with my leg and sniffing dangerously at the parts most valued by mankind.

There were several real ales on offer and I asked the bored-but-friendly barmaid for a pint of Allendale Wolf. No wonder the barmaid was bored, by the way, as there was no-one in the bar apart from myself.

I had hardly taken my seat, however, when a group of three noisily entered the bar. Two were men whom I had just seen outside on the green, busily engaged in erecting a marquee for that weekend's Fair. The third was a trim lady, colourfully dressed in a red trouser-suit. She was no chicken, but she was certainly attractive and had the two men whipped to a frenzy of excitement. Peals of laughter rang out after every sentence and they filled the bar with sound. It was all very entertaining and I much enjoyed the floor show as I sipped at my pint of Allendale Wolf, a dark sweetish brew which was none too clear but not bad enough to be sent back. There's no excuse for this, thought I, a flagrant case of bad cellaring.

The almost-hysterical conversation turned to "San Tropez" and "seafood" and some tale about waiters which led to the lady in red doing a most alluring shimmy, causing eyes to pop and the volume to escalate.

Really, I was exhausted by the time they left, leaving behind a trail of shrill laughter which seemed to hang in the air.

Meanwhile, I had passed on to a pint of Allendale Bitter, which turned out to be indeed bitter, though not sharp enough for my taste, and served too warm. However, it was clear enough, so it was better than the Wolf. I shall have to give the Allendale Brewery another chance in the future, as I'm afraid that the Golden Lion was not a good advertisement for its products on the day I visited.

Allendale Town

2008-07-04T00:18:00.000-07:00

After my visit to the Tap & Spile, Hexham, I decided to push on into Allendale. Availing myself of Mr Precott's free transport, I caught a bus to Allendale Town. This place is famous insofar as, from time immemorial and right up until the present day, they perform the pagan fire ceremonies on New Year's Eve. A huge bonfire is lit and everyone files past, hooded and carrying burning brands, before hurling their flaming torches into the Great Fire. All tremendous fun, I'm sure, but the house insurance companies are less than impressed.

The bus hurtled through the countryside at a breakneck speed and we were there in 20 minutes. It was marvellous to see the fields so well stocked with animals. The horribly bungled response to the Foot & Mouth outbreak some years ago had resulted in the wholesale slaughter of our entire livestock population and I never thought to see animals grazing so peacefully in our fields again. The trauma of that year will never be forgotten.

Allendale Town has four good pubs, two of which face directly on to the village green, where they were erecting a big marquee for the summer fete. In the near future, I will review all four pubs but I decided to try the Golden Lion first, as it advertised itself as the home of the Allendale Brewery. At least I'll be sure of getting some real ale, thought I, so I pushed my way past a rather smelly old border collie and entered the bar.

(Continued tomorrow - I have to go to the dentist now....oh joy!)

The Tap & Spile, Hexham

2008-07-02T00:11:00.000-07:00

The Tap & Spile, as can be seen from the photo, is a very traditional old pub in the very traditional old market town of Hexham. It was here that, some years ago, I heard three farmers discussing, in hushed tones, the possibility of an outbreak of Foot & Mouth disease. A few days later the disease broke out, with devastating consequences. I wonder (as they said about President Nixon) what they knew, and when they knew it. But all that is now history.

I arrived in Hexham by bus as, thanks to Mr Prescott, I now qualify for free travel on public transport. It was a fairly hot day, so I made straight for the Tap & Spile, knowing that they would have a good selection of real ales on offer. Six beers were chalked up on the board and I asked my standard question: "Which of these are actually ON at the moment, please?" "Why, all of them" answered the barman "we ALWAYS have all our ales ready when we put them up on the board." A welcome change, I thought. I get fed up with ordering a pint only to be told "that one isn't on".

I had a pint of Jennings' Cumberland Ale and it was in perfect condition. A lovely refreshing drink, clear and sweetish but with a manly bitter aftertaste. I felt that I could sink a few of those and was tempted to shelve my afternoon's schedule and just settle down to a session! Resisting, I decided to give Deuchar's IPA another chance. You may remember from one of my previous articles that I had a vile pint of this brew at the Newcastle Hotel in Rothbury. Well, my second attempt at appreciating this beer convinced me that it just doesn't suit my palate. The pint I was served was VERY clear, mildish and light, with a bitter, hoppy flavour, but there is just something in the aftertaste that I don't like. I've given it a fair trial and I shall avoid it in future. It's a question of individual preference.

Glancing round the bar, I could see that this was a bar for those who appreciated good, down-to-earth living. Dogs were very definitely allowed and everyone seemed to have one except me. I briefly thought of kidnapping one from the street to cover my nakedness, but decided to leave instead. I had other things to do that afternoon (as you shall hear in due course) so, complimenting the barman on the quality of his cellar, I tore myself away and left.

The cellarman's name was Fred, the barman told me, so here's to you mon ami, I'll be back!!

Off to Tuscany (10)

2008-06-26T01:00:00.000-07:00

One of the things I find very charming about "my" part of Italy is how old folks cling stubbornly to the rural life in the villages in which they are born. Even if they move away to work in their youth or middle life, they long to return to the old village to end their days.

As a consequence, some of the hill-villages are like old folks homes, with fitter neighbours looking after those less fortunate than themselves.

Sometimes, when I have passed through a village such as this one, Aiola, all sweaty and weary from a long hike, the old folk have appeared at their doors, clucking their tongues at the state of me and offering ice-cold drinks.

On Sundays, the winding roads up to the hills are often packed with cars as families make the weekly trek to see to their old parents and grandparents in the villages. It's an Italian way of life

Off to Tuscany (9)

2008-06-24T01:00:00.000-07:00

In addition to the memorials and shrines to victims of the Second World War which I have mentioned in previous articles, there are, of course, more conventional religious shrines.

This lovely shrine, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, is at the edge of the forest near Codiponte, a village which was once on an important pilgrim trail in the middle ages.

The church at Codiponte is over a thousand years old and was the seat of a bishop - the ruins of his palace still adjoin the ancient church building.

I don't know who looks after the shrine, but it is always in lovely condition. It's an ideal place to rest after a long walk through the woods, before pushing on to the cafe for a nice cold beer.

Off to Tuscany (8)

2008-06-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

In a previous article, I have referred to the many monuments and memorials scattered through these hills which bear testament to the bitter fighting which took place here at the end of World War Two. The partisans in these hills had risen, not just against the German occupiers, but against their own government.

On this lovely little bridge, near Monzone, a local padre and his brother were executed and a memorial plaque records the atrocity.

One blazing hot summer day, myself and a basking lizard sat here on the stone parapet and read the very moving inscription, put there by his erstwhile flock, which tells of the gratitude of the padre's parishioners and names him as a true martyr.

Off to Tuscany (7)

2008-06-20T01:00:00.000-07:00

Here is village and gorge of Equi Terme, which lies in the next valley to Casola. As the crow flies, it's about three kilometres from my village, but I am not a crow and the route by road or footpath is more than twice that distance.

Nevertheless, I frequently visit Equi to bathe in the water of the river, which is blessed with sulphuric salts and other health-giving mineral deposits.

Italians have visited Equi for the purposes of "taking the waters" for centuries. In fact, the first triumvirate was plotted here in 56 B.C when Julius Caesar met Pompey Magnus and Marcus Crassus at Equi, whilst pretending to take the waters. Later that year, they sealed their agreement at Lucca and divided up the Roman world between them.

It's quite entertaining to lie in the soothing mud, with the warm water flowing round you, and contemplate these earth-shaking events, now irrelevant in the flow of time.

Off to Tuscany (6)

2008-06-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

From medieval days right up until fairly modern times, village life was very communal in Italy and the hard tasks of everyday life were lightened by the companionship of fellow-villagers.
Here is the Old Bagno in Casola, where the women of the village used to gather to do their washing in the clear running water of a spring which was fed through the cistern.
One can easily imagine the gossip and laughter which went on around these ancient stone slabs, to the accompaniment of the slapping and scrubbing of the soapy clothes.
There is a wall opposite and no doubt the village youths gathered there to exchange banter with the young girls assisting their mothers. At a re-enactment I attended one night at a village fete, that is exactly what happened and the night ended with couple slipping off, hand-in-hand, in the dark.

At O'Connell House, Singapore

2008-06-17T01:52:00.000-07:00

Over 40 years ago I used to visit O’Connell House in Singapore whenever I got the chance. It was meant to be a place where sailors could drink beer in peace without importuning disturbances from locals. No beggars or prostitutes were allowed in, but itinerant traders turned up now and again. I suppose that they must have bribed the staff to allow them to pursue their dodgy business.

One day I was sitting by the pool with a bunch of guys I had met from a German ship. We were drinking beer and swapping stories, enjoying the cool breezes which lapped across the water. A trader approached and offered to sell us an “Omega” watch at a “discount price, especially for you, today only”.
We all knew, of course, that it was a “clockwork orange”, a fake of local manufacture. Sometimes there were even spelling mistakes in the words cut into the back.
“Is this watch waterproof?” asked one of the Germans.
“Of course, sir, genuine Omega”.
At that, the German threw it into the pool, saying:
“Now I’m going to dive in there and get it. If it’s stopped, you’re going in after it!”
The trader immediately ran off, leaving his tray of “Omega” watches behind him.
The German tipped them all into the pool.

Off to Tuscany (5)

2008-06-15T01:00:00.000-07:00

As I said in my first article about Casola, the village was once very important in medieval times and it still retains many medieval features. In fact, I am amazed that it has not attracted film companies as a film set. Anyone out there interested? Get in touch, the villagers would be most interested and co-operative.

The archway featured in this picture is just one of many such gems of ancient architecture in the narrow streets of the village.
At night, the "film set" is even more impressive and my wife and I love to walk around it, soaking up the atmosphere of a bygone age.

Off to Tuscany (4)

2008-06-12T01:00:00.000-07:00

Here is the view from our front windows. The building in the chestnut forest is the old convent, the home of Catholic Nuns until early in the last century.

It fell into disrepair when the nuns left but has now been restored by a Swiss/German couple who hold seminars and health clinics there.

The nuns were a self-sufficient Order who harvested their own crops and produced all the necessities of life. They kept livestock and had vines and olives. The crumbling terraces which they cultivated can still be seen.

Various types of edible fungus can be found in the forest, too, but you have to be very careful with identification - some species are poisonous

Off to Tuscany (3)

2008-06-10T01:00:00.000-07:00

The nature of the countryside around Casola is Alpine.
Here is a view of Pisanino, the greatest of the mountains in the range, the Apuan Alps.

The village in the foreground is Argigliano, the next village to Casola, about 2 km away.

Pisanino is snow-capped in winter and is not to be trifled with. Many climbers have lost their lives on its slopes and partisans successfully hid out there during the war.

Relics of Mussolini's "guard posts" can still be found, scattered around the mountains and hill-slopes, reminders of grim times in the history of this part of the world.

There are also many monuments, recording atrocities committed by both sides.

Off to Tuscany (2)

2008-06-08T01:00:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture of our village, Casola, which was once a very important staging-post for the mule trains which passed through from the Florentine hinterland to the coast and the north of Italy.

The forests around the village are mainly chestnut and millions of the nuts are avilable, free for the gathering, in the autumn. They roast beautifully on the top of the woodstove or may be ground up to make many Italian delicacies, including a very tasty "bread".

Off to Tuscany

2008-06-07T01:00:00.000-07:00

On June 7th we are off to our house in Tuscany and will be absent for three weeks. I may leave a few articles pre-scheduled to appear during my absence but, in general, I shan’t be able to keep up my daily blog during this time.

Our house is in Casola, a medieval hill-top village in Lunigiana, the northernmost district of Tuscany, an area as yet unspoiled by mass tourism. The house was built in 1567, at the time when Cosimo I was Grand Duke of Tuscany, and was originally the dwelling of a miller, who ground chestnuts into flour in the adjacent mill.
The mill is still in very good order and condition, even the massive millstones being intact, though the water supply which powered it has now been diverted elsewhere. We use the building to store logs for our woodstove, on which I frequently cook a mean chicken stew.
Here’s a picture of our house, so that you can imagine us there while we are away. As you can see, the bottom storey through the arch was used as a stable (I use it as a wine-cellar) and the living quarters are located on the upper floors. I shall post one or two other photos of the house and village to appear while we are away.

(A full description of the house and how I came to buy it, including descriptions of the pitfalls and legal procedures, is given in my booklet “How we Bought our House in Tuscany”, 24 pages, many illustrations, price £2 inc P&P, by contacting my email address in the left-hand column.)

Bar Talk 2

2008-06-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the ship’s bar one night, surrounded by philosophers, Dick McGill expressed the opinion that, were the oceans to be drained, the major shipping routes of the world could be traced by the litter of beer cans on the ocean floor.
“You’re full of shit” opined a particularly subtle and suave listener “beer cans don’t reach the bottom. They reach a level where the water is so dense that they can’t sink any deeper”.
Visions of millions of beer cans, suspended beneath the waves, swam before our eyes.
“No they don’t” said another Einstein “because they would fill up with water as they sank and then they would weigh more.”
“Yes, but the water which filled them would be from the surface and be less dense, so they would pop.”
“Nah, there would always be some air trapped in them and so they’d float at a certain level.”
“How the hell could they float if there was no water left in the ocean?”
Deep silence reigned for a moment then someone said:
“Whose round is it?”

Bar Talk 1

2008-06-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

When I was at sea, I was witness to some deep philosophical conversations in the ship’s bar between watches. For instance, I remember once when, by way of comparison, a raconteur referred to something as being “rough as a badger’s arse”.
Later in the conversation, another participant used the expression “smooth as a badger’s bum”.
“Now hold on a minute”, says Hexham Hawkins, “a badger’s bum is either rough or it’s smooth, it can’t be both. Now which is it?”
Much debate followed until someone said:
“Has anyone here present ever seen a badger’s arse?”
Mrs O’Gorman’s Boy took his pipe from his mouth and said:
“Sure and I have seen a badger’s arse.”
Then he replaced his pipe and lapsed into his customary silence.
We were all astonished by this utterance for we all knew that Mrs O'Gorman's Boy lived his life in a state of profound silence, being content merely to witness the folly of others.
In fact, everyone was so amazed to hear a word from that sphinx-like presence that he was not pressed to give any further information.
To this day, therefore, the question has remained unresolved and I burn with curiosity.
Can anyone out there enlighten me?

A Visit to The Maltings

2008-06-03T03:31:00.000-07:00

The Maltings is in South Shields town centre and is one of three pubs wholly owned and supplied by the Jarrow Brewery. Eventually, I shall get round to writing something about the other two, which I have already visited.

The pub was once a night club and I went there a few times in a previous lifetime when I was young and wild. As with all nightclubs, however, which I find disorientating with their flashing lights, thumping music and shifting sea of faces, I have no abiding memories of the interior layout, so it was no surprise to me to find that I couldn’t relate my past experience to the present set-up when I finally entered the building.

I say “finally” because I turned up mid-afternoon to find that the pub doesn’t open until 4 p.m. Returning at the appointed hour, I found the place to be singularly empty, having just opened for business.

I was quite impressed with the mock-Victorian décor. Of course the woodwork was all veneer, but it had been very well done and might well have fooled a lot of folk at first glance. There were many replica momentos and old pictures on the walls to entertain visitors and soft background music was playing. I suspect that, at livelier times of the evening, the music might become less unobtrusive, however!

What certainly pleased me was the layout of the place. Although there was only one bar to serve all, definite areas had been screened and partitioned off, each with a different character. Some areas had traditional bar furniture, but others were like the foyer of a “class” hotel, with leather couches and armchairs to lounge in. I decided to settle in one of these very comfortable plush areas and read the newspapers which the bar provided. There had just been a beer festival and the remnants of the remaining two guest ales were being offered at knock-down prices. Having sampled all of the Jarrow Brewery’s own brews in the past (as I shall review on another occasion), I opted to try the guest ales.

The first was EASTWOOD GOLD AWARD, from a brewery in Elland, Leeds. It was a medium-dark brew, very clear and bitter with good “legs”. There was a definite taste of hops in the aftertaste: very palatable indeed. I cannot say the same for the second brew I tried. In fact I had to send it back, it was so cloudy. Actually, though the barmaid claimed “it had been like that from the beginning”, I don’t think it fair to name the brew as it MUST have been badly cellared, NOBODY makes beer as bad as that and stays in business!

So, while the pub gradually began to draw in its first customers, I sat and drank another pint of the Eastwood Gold, which was every bit as good as the first. I shall have to return to The Maltings some evening, to give it another try when there is some “atmosphere” about the place.

Dr Johnson's Party at the Devil Tavern (Wot, him again?)

2008-06-02T01:00:00.000-07:00

The old Devil Tavern stood next to Temple Bar and was the frequent haunt of the great and the good in 17th and 18th century London.
Dr Johnson, that literary despot “with the mountainous belly and the rocky face”, once held an all-night party there to celebrate his friend Mrs Lennox’s first novel and the engraving shows him arriving at the tavern.
Sir John Hawkins, who was present at the beano, reported that “The supper was elegant; Johnson had directed that a magnificent hot apple pie” should be served, along with coffee and tea.

The Doctor then proceeded to congratulatory speech-making and at “about 5 a.m, Johnson’s face shone with meridian splendour, though his drink had only been lemonade, but the greater part of the company had deserted to the colours of Bacchus and were with difficulty rallied”.
The guests, however, were not the only ones who had been beaten into submission by the good Doctor’s discourse as “the waiters were all so overcome with sleep that it was two hours before a bill could be had, and it was not until near eight” that the tormented company staggered out into the street.
Quite a party – don’t you wish you’d been there?

The Pilau Bukom "Officer's" Club

2008-06-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

I wonder if there are any old sailors out there who remember this venerable institution? It was located on an artificial island off the coast of Singapore.

The island was an oil refinery and the Club was essential to tankermen who had only a few hours in which to drink themselves insensible before their ship sailed.
The Club was staffed by “Servants” (they called themselves that) who fondly remembered the British Raj. Many had left in disgust when independence was granted to the sub-continent and swore that their lives had been ruined by Ghandi, Nehru and such “upstarts”. Mostly they were fierce turbaned Sikhs, former Indian Army NCOs complete with curled moustachios and swagger canes.
The only beer on offer was Tiger Beer, which invariably gave me the "ring of fire", so that I was never off the toilet for a couple of days after each visit. It never occurred to me, of course, not to drink the stuff – “Jack Ashore” must have his beer!

The photo shows myself (with the whiskers) and Chunky Marshall in deep contemplation, possibly watching some fool throwing himself fully-clothed into the pool to cool off. This was a regular occurrence and generally led to the offender being ejected by the Servants.
Another “entertainment” was provided by bogus "veterans" who would produce long testimonials, signed by their erstwhile “Commanding Officer”, declaring them to have been a true and loyal servant to the Crown etc etc etc.

We usually gave them a couple of Singapore dollars to get them to bugger off before the Servants caught them and gave them a savage whopping with their swagger sticks.
Occasionally, when the ship was delayed for some reason or other, we would have time to go into Singapore itself and visit the Anson Road, in pursuit of more dubious pleasures.
We used to go to the aptly-named Paradise Bar. When I die, I hope to go there again.

Friday Night

2008-05-31T01:39:00.000-07:00

In a comment on a previous article of mine (“A harsh solution”, 27th May), ycc-dubbel said "why not cage everyone who visits horrific town centre bars on a Friday night?"

Well I wouldn’t know, as it’s not my habit to go down the town centre on a Friday night nowadays. Last time I did so, some years ago, I witnessed a scene like something out of the movie “Gangs of New York”. People were urinating in public and aggressive-looking roving gangs were hurling greetings and abuse at each other in the foulest of language at the tops of their voices.
Meanwhile, the “police” (actually, they looked like “specials”) were sitting in their van, which was parked up on the pedestrianised crossroads, no doubt adopting a “softly, softly” approach.
Suddenly a big drunken lad came out of a pub and hurled a bottle high in the air for the pleasure of seeing it shatter on the pavement. Leaping to avoid the shards of glass which exploded in all directions, I banged, red-faced and angry, on the side of the police van.

They rolled the window down and I shouted “aren’t you going to do something?”.
“Yes” one replied “we’ll arrest YOU if you don’t clear off.”
Is this unique to my town or are there similar scenes in other parts of Britain?

The Boon of the 'Spoon (part three)

2008-05-28T02:44:00.000-07:00

Further to the ongoing debate about the merits of Wetherspoons, I have to say that there are several real-ale pubs in South Shields, but my local Wetherspoons, The William Wouldhave, consistently serves the best beer. Besides their standard brews, Marston's Pedigree Bitter and Greene King's Abbot Ale and IPA which are always available, the pub normally has at least two "guest ales" on tap.

My wife Marion and I make a habit of trying them all, buying two pints and swapping them between us, sharing "tasting notes" and opinions. Yesterday the guest ales, pictured right, were Marston's Merrie Monk and Anker Bruin, a Belgian brew from the Anker Brewery, Mechelen. At first, we agreed that we preferred the rich, dark, sweetish Belgian brew, which seemed a lot tastier than the Merrie Monk. But, as we went on drinking, the sharp, refreshing, more subtle taste of the Merrie Monk began to get through to us and won our vote for a second pint. Marion usually drops out at this point and opts for a light meal, such as the baked potato with crayfish and Marie Rose dressing shown in the photo below, occasionally sipping from my beer as the mood takes her.

Among our past favourites during such tasting sessions are Titanic Brewery's Lifeboat, a fruity, malty darkish beer which is nonetheless quite dry, enabling the drinker to sink quite a few pints. Devon's Butcombe Gold is another beer that we really appreciated. As its name suggests, this is a blonde beer, light and bittersweet, being made from English malt and fuggles hops.

The products of local brewers such as Big Lamp's Prince Bishop and the Allendale Brewing Company's Tar Barrel Stout have also won our approval in the past. This latter brew, with its rich dark texture and creamy head, impressed me so much that I have promised myself (and you) to get up to Allendale Town to sample more of the micro-brewery's products. If I remember rightly, there are four good pubs in the little Northumberland town and The Golden Lion bids fair to be called the Brewery's "tap".

All this talk of beer is making me thirsty and they'll be open soon so, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to see what the Wouldhave has on offer today.

The Boon of the 'Spoon (part two)

2008-05-28T01:17:00.000-07:00

Our local Wetherspoons is the pub I most frequently visit in the town. It is named after William Wouldhave who, together with boatbuilder Henry Greathead, designed and built the first purpose-built lifeboat in the early 19th century. The boat subsequently saved over a thousand lives and there is a monument to the famous pair down by the coast in South Shields.

As with all Wetherspoons outlets I have visited, the interior of the pub is disappointingly modern, but very comfortable. As you know, I prefer traditional, quaint, old-fashioned pubs but you can't have everything and an effort is made to add local colour with paintings and pictures of local scenes and personalities.

In the cockpit of the bar there are leather sofas on which customers can sprawl, though these are very difficult to sit on whilst eating. A raised area at the end of the bar, supplied with dining tables, serves as a sort of restaurant and the menu is reasonably priced, good food at fair prices. A mezzanine floor serves as a family room and no children are allowed in any other area. This rule is firmly but politely enforced, thank heavens.

The manager, who buzzes about busily whenever he is on duty, is a rather stern-looking no nonsense sort of chap and his choice of staff cannot be faulted. You will find no bimbos who cannot do the job in the Wouldhave. All the girls, like shift manager Kelly and Sam (the taller of the two pictured here) are very pleasant and efficient and they keep up a light bantering relationship with regulars which generates an excellent atmosphere in which to relax and enjoy a drink or a meal.

Whoever does the cellaring must be congratulated on the quality of the beer. I don't think I've ever had a bad pint at the Wouldhave, though of course I have tried brews which didn't suit my palate. There are always at least two guest ales on tap at any time and I make a point of trying them all, as I will relate tomorrow.

A harsh solution?

2008-05-27T00:37:00.000-07:00

The members of the Brigham & Cowans Club in my hometown of South Shields have found an effective solution to the menace of smokers.

They imprison them.

As soon as they arrive at the Club, they are rounded up and herded into a special jail which has been purpose-built on the side of the building. Here they are kept until closing time, when they are released to inflict themselves again upon the world.

Personally, I find this solution to be a little harsh. After all, I was a smoker myself once, when I was young and foolish.

The Old Club, Rookhope (part three)

2008-05-26T05:26:00.000-07:00

In previous articles, I have recounted how I came to buy The Old Club at Rookhope in Weardale, a former licensed premises still graced with a bar and many of the features of its former usage. The building seems to have dated back to the 18th century, although legal papers earlier than 1840 were missing. These referred to earlier documents now lost, however.

The walls were at least three feet thick and were of stone, infilled with rubble and the original building had been a "four-square" Dales house, two rooms upstairs and two down. During the Club days, however, the partition walls had been removed to make a large bar downstairs and a "lounge" upstairs.

The tremendous advantage of this modification was that there was a fireplace at either end of each of the rooms and the place could be made as warm as toast by lighting more than one of the fires! Elderly people like my parents and my wife's mother loved the comfortable nostalgia of sitting in front of a roaring fire, toasting-fork in hand.

I used to gather driftwood from our local beach (we live near the sea) and saw it up, so that we always arrived with the car boot full of logs for the fires. Sometimes I would invite large numbers of people to the house and a company would form around each fireplace, so that there was a choice of conversations. If you didn't fancy the craic at one fireplace, you could always move to another! Once or twice I managed to get locally famous folkies to come and rough it for the weekend and we would have a good old sing-round. In winter it was great to be warm and cosy in that old house while the snow lay thickly outside!

I spent many hours sanding down and varnishing the oak beams in the ceiling and holystoning the floorboards until they were as white and shining as a ship's deck. Womenfolk in high-heeled shoes were definitely not welcome.

The house was a marvellous base for walkers too, and there are many interesting industrial remains in the hills around the village. A branch of George Stevenson's pioneering Stockton & Darlington Railway terminated at an old engine house at the top of the fell behind our house and the ruins were still there for all to see. Mileposts inscribed "S&D" marked out the route, like lonely testaments, stark against the brooding sky.

Just to be there conjured up a myriad images of those bygone times.

Due to changes in the rating assessments (my bills quadrupled overnight!), the house finally became too expensive to run and I had to sell it. A guy from Luton bought it and, the last time I passed there, I saw that he had cast the bar and its fitments out onto the veranda and demolished the stable to make a hard standage for his car.

It broke my heart to see it and I never want to go there again

Lifelong Pub Run: Newcastle Brown Ale on Tap?

2008-05-26T01:37:00.000-07:00

Take a look at this article by SheyMouse. Is it a dream?

Lifelong Pub Run: Newcastle Brown Ale on Tap?

Cragside & The Newcastle Hotel

2008-05-26T00:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went up to Cragside in Northumberland, the former country residence of Sir William Armstrong, the Victorian arms manufacturer. My daughter-in-law, Shao Xin Ying, is a film-maker and hopes to make a documentary about him, so my wife and I took her there to take some outdoor shots in the beautiful landscaped grounds. The house is a fantastic hotch-potch of different styles, as bits were added willy-nilly as the years went by, but it is certainly fascinating and well worth a visit.

In this house Armstrong entertained Edward, the Prince of Wales, and many foreign diplomats to whom he hoped to sell arms. He actually supplied both sides in the American Civil War and was a major supplier to the rising Japanese Empire, very much enabling them to become a modern military power.

On the other hand, he founded a college at Newcastle University, gave his town house and grounds to the people as a park and restored Bamburgh Castle, among other philantrhropic deeds. As the historians say, we must judge people by the standards of their times.

We ate our pic-nic by one of the artificial lakes Armstrong had created and wandered among the bright rhododendrons, many of which were just coming into flower. It was a beautiful day and we had a wonderful time. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for our subsequent visit to the Newcastle Hotel in nearby Rothbury.

There was a fair range of real-ales on offer, but none were at their best. The Black Sheep Bitter was the worst I have tasted for a long time, positively sour. The Deuchar's I.P.A was warm, weak and innocuous. The best brew they served was Wychwood Brewery's Hobgoblin, which was clear and tasty, with a heavy chocolate flavour.

Glancing around, I noticed that the bar had been "decorated" with the most obviously fake ceiling beams I have ever seen in my life - they looked like plastic! We were finally driven out when the bar staff turned the music up to full volume and everyone in the bar began shouting over the din. This was NOT an experience to be repeated!