When a pub floods

The River Barle at 6pm a couple of hours before it broke

There’s a moment in the film The Battle of Britain when you see Londoners crowding together in a hall after they’ve been bombed out of their homes (sadly the hall gets it not long after). An old boy wanders about, muttering to himself, mantra-like ‘they’ve got the Rose & Crown, they’ve got the Rose & Crown’. 

I thought of this scene last night when all of a sudden my wife started seeing panicky messages on Facebook about the River Barle breaking its banks in Dulverton. We’re at the top of town and so I wandered down to find that the river had ‘got’ the Bridge Inn. Its downstairs lights were out, the doors were closed and water was flowing over its low wall, through the beer garden and into the pub. The firemen were out, the garage opposite was also flooded, as were several other properties around. 

This morning we walked the dog past and I spoke with Kenny the landlord. He’d been optimistic he would be open again by tomorrow but now he wasn’t sure when beers would start flowing again. The cellar had not been flooded and in an attempt to lighten things I asked him if there was much beer left in the casks. What about Jim I then asked. Jim is a lovely old chap who lives nearby in sheltered accommodation and most days takes himself to the pub for a couple of pints of Exmoor Ale. He was on Lancasters in the war and also supports Arsenal so we’ve got a lot to talk about. He and the Bridge will miss each other for a few days — this is something that those who directly or indirectly talk down the pub forget: the pub is a home from home for many, even those of us with a warm (or not so warm in our case) comfortable house. 

For a few days I will miss the Bridge, I will miss the general chit-chat over nothing in particular, a perusal through the papers, freshly pulled Proper Job or — if I’m feeling flush — a bottle of Duvel or Orval. It’s only for a few days but happening just before Christmas it couldn’t have come at a worse time for Kenny and his family. Hopefully though they’ll be open again before the end of the year, but it is at times like this that one remembers that the pub is much more than a place to drink. 

Feet washing

A delicious glass or three of Jaipur accompanies this gorgeous summer day as I hide from the thrum and thump of the Morris men whose drums singe the air; Dulverton folk festival draws in a caravan of Bohemians and bandits who spam the town with their guitars. A strum here and a strum there; the Bridge Inn draws them in with a mini beer festival that features RCH’s luscious East Street Cream, Orkney’s steadfast Dark and the Carmen Miranda of an ale Jaipur, plus several others. Meanwhile at the top of town the Rock Inn features Black Cat, Pitchfork and a couple of others. Men with hats that feature daisies as a halo sip and sing their way through these ales, while the locals turn their nostrils up at various delights. Try a real ale says someone at the bar to one of the town’s cricketers who shows off his yellowing bruise from the previous weekend (he bowled me there we are told and once again I reiterate that cricket is more dangerous than rugby); I would rather wash my feet in it comes the reply, filthy stuff; and he orders a Guinness. I start to think about going on about that all good beer is good beer, but lose the will to live (I don’t want to be known as a real ale radical, all good beer is my universe). It’s wasted on me says Herbie as he savours his Carlsberg, twisting the knife in the wound, but when he turns up at my house after taking James to the pub across the road for a game of pool with Jack, I offer him a swig of Prima Pils from Victory. No thanks he says, not really interested, oh alright he says, and tries it — that’s not bad is it, he says, face bemused. Can I have some more? Not really I say, but try this bottle of Bel Pils. He enjoys it. Result! Now for the feet washing man.

Coke shandy

In the Bridge yesterday afternoon, a chap at the bar orders a half of Coke and a half of Carlsberg. ‘You’ve been living in Germany,’ I say, ‘possibly Duisberg?’ To my great delight, as it furthers my beer ego immensely at the bar, he nods yes. ‘best place for it,’ I then say, meaning the Carlsberg in his glass; this is not really good beer etiquette, people drink what they want to drink. ‘It does ok for me,’ he grunts and then goes to sit down. I think he won that encounter. The last thing I want to appear as is as a fully paid up member of the beer police.