As it should be

Down by the river in one of my two locals and we’re talking about what people drink. Herbie likes his Carlsberg and Rick is on the Addlestone’s (as are various WAGs) — lager makes me feel gassy and real ale gives me a head says Rick, while the prospect of a forthcoming beer festival in the pub we are drinking in and featuring the likes of East Street Cream and Orkney Dark gets Herbie saying it will be wasted on him. I’m on Otter Ale, then draught Budvar and feel like a wine snob (though the prospect of a beer festival where I can drink ESC and Ork Dark 400 metres from my door excites me no end) — we’re all having a good time, as are quite a few people around us. Thoughts about beer wars, campaigns, cask ale weeks, god knows how many beers you have to drink before you keel over and whatever are off on in the ether — we’re just enjoying good pub time. As it should be.

The landlord drops a glass

Sunday afternoon pints. My mate’s been in the Bridge since 2pm and you’d think he was celebrating Ireland’s win over Italy given the amount of Guinness he has shipped onboard. I’ve just popped in for a quick Otter Ale and then the landlord drops a glass behind the bar. A cheer resounds, which takes me back to my youth — whenever anyone dropped a glass in the pub a cheer would go up. I had not heard this sound for years. Is the survival of this tradition akin to the sort of folk memories that associate a huntsman on a horse with the marauding Norman knights from hundreds of years ago? Or just loutish behaviour by my mate?

The snow fell and we went to the pub

When the snow struck in the West Country and our town was without power there was only one place to go on Friday afternoon and that was the pub. The place was packed with locals, including the weary part-time firemen who had been out all night in the driving snow, and the licensees were doling out soup that they’d made on the AGA. The ale was in fine fettle, Otter’s robust ale, with its estery fruit notes on the nose, including pear drops; meanwhile the palate was a steady and solid slab of biscuity toffee at first then a balance of fruit before its rich and dry finish. Several pints of this were downed — after all it was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. But what stays with me is the place of the local pub as somewhere were folk made their way to — to share stories, have a drink and a bite to eat, gossip, laugh and generally leave behind their cloistered selves that slumps in front of the telly. Good pubs like the one I was in will not go under — if there were more with that sense of community we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in.