A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.
William Blake
Since reading George Orwell’s essay 'The Moon under Water' almost five decades ago, I have sought a pub near wherever I called home that came close to his idyll and that I might call my ‘local’. That search proved fruitless until I moved to Chippenham in Wiltshire and, a few years ago, found a pub I could call such a 'local' at last. A pub with a welcoming ambience, devoid of gaming machines and other distractions in which I could enjoy a glass or two of good ale and engaging conversation with other patrons and bar staff. It was the Flying Monk. It did not completely match Orwell’s aspiration, but to me, it came close. So, after moving to Blaydon, I searched for an establishment that might offer the same.
During house hunting in the area, I saw an establishment near the centre of Blaydon (given its size, nowhere is extremely far from the centre of Blaydon) called the Bisley. It looked like a foreboding place with its large flat front and three stories of smoke-blackened stone. So, without thinking more about it, I decided that if I did move to Blaydon, the Bisley would not be on the list of contenders as my 'local'.
As it happened, there was not a wide choice of pubs within reasonable walking distance of my home, and that did not require the long 'pull' up Shibdon Bank to the nearby town of Winlaton. Indeed, there were only two pubs, the Bisley and the Black Bull. So, not long after moving and fancying a glass of beer but not a long walk or a hill climb, I girded my loins and headed for the nearest to my home, the Bisley.
As I approached, I saw two doors, one to the bar, the other to the snug. I opted for the bar as I could see a sizeable log fire within. On crossing the threshold, I saw a couple of young lads playing pool and two chaps around my age sitting side by side, conversing. The young lads nodded with silent smiles in my direction. At the same time, the two older fellows met my eye with smiles, offering the classic Geordie greeting of "aareet" (hello - or more accurately, OK? - like the French ‘ça va?'). Umm, I thought that was a friendly welcome to a 'stranger'.
As was that from the bartender who, with a winning smile and in the gentlest of Geordie accents (I discovered later they were from Prudhoe - a genteel Northumbrian town about ten miles west of Blaydon), asked what I was having? My eye fell on the tap carrying a McEwan’s Scotch Ale label. That was my mother's favourite beer, so a glass of it seemed apt. An apology answered my request. "I'm afraid it's off". The alternatives were narrow ranging. Unlike the Flying Monk, there were no real ales from small breweries on tap. Instead, it was the likes of John Smiths and Fosters. I opted for Guinness; it's my fallback if nothing else tempts my palate. My pint, drawn as it should be, went down well. As did the comfortable chat with the bartender and my banter with the older chaps who'd offered me a greeting.
I liked that welcome, and the Guinness had been good, but I still needed to be convinced and then came my second and unplanned visit.
I write unplanned as this was another attempt to visit the Red Kite. In an earlier post, I mentioned that pub when the River Derwent separated it and me. I'd since heard it described as a friendly pub serving some good ales. I already knew its location was a lovely country setting. So off I went on a nose-nipping walk on a chilly day—the anticipation of that first pint spurring on my every step. Three miles later, I arrived at its front door, but alas, on reaching my goal, it was to discover the place had closed the week before for refurbishment. It was a disappointment I tasted rather than a good ale. Of course, my now enlivened taste buds needed my promised pint, so after another three miles, I stood again outside The Bisley. Of course, it wasn't another three miles. It was the same three miles as before, just walking in a different direction. Anyway, I entered the pub.
A different clientele this time, but a greeting of "aareet" again offered from those there. The bartender remembered my first brief visit a couple of weeks ago and asked whether it would again be a Guinness. It would, and it was as good as the last time I'd been in. And again, within moments, I was in conversation with others. This time I discovered, courtesy of the local pub 'historian', that the place dated from 1894 and that the interior and fittings, other than redecoration, had stayed the same throughout the years. The large, high-ceiling rooms were a testament to the pub’s age. And they were also a testament to the fact that warm air rises, so we at ground level struggled to keep warm, even with the large log fire that blazed away.
Even after that second enjoyable visit, I needed to check out the Black Bull because it seemed more my place from what I'd read and heard. So, a couple of weeks on, I did just that. This time walking past the doors of the Bisley and a mile further on, fetching up on the threshold of the Black Bull. A more attractive building than the Bisley, built in redbrick with bow front windows and unlike the Bisley and its large chilly bar and snug, entering this place felt toasty. The bartender offered a pleasant smile and politely asked what I would like. There was, however, no other greeting from the patrons. Not even a nod in my direction, and the bartender returned swiftly to chatting with them after pulling my pint.
What does one want from a local? Decent beer, yes, but also conviviality. A place that offers a warm welcome to all, whether they frequent the pub occasionally or regularly and bar staff who remember their customers and their preferred drinks and are happy to engage in conversation with a 'stranger'. Despite the Bisley's foreboding appearance and its chilly rooms, it felt comfortable —a place with a warm welcome and where you could enjoy comfortable conversation over a decent beer or two.
So, I've found my 'local' and have enjoyed visiting since those first two hesitant times. The pub 'historian' who told me all about the pub's building also shared why it acquired its unusual name. It was through its first Victorian manager. A notable rifle sharpshooter whose claim to fame was competing at Bisley in Surrey, the home of the National Rifle Association.
On my last visit, the regular bar staff were absent, and a young lad and lass stood behind the bar. From the chill on entering, I noticed the need for a warming fire and a failed attempt to get one going. I asked whether they would like me to do it. They happily agreed, so I set to work on something I last did more than fifty years ago in those days of coal fires I recalled from my youth. It didn't take long with paper, kindling, then ultimately logs, and the help of a brazier to soon have a blaze going. It brought back a memory of my grandfather who, rather than bother with the brazier, would stand in front of a fledgling fire holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace to create an updraft. Once the fire 'took', it invariably caught the bottom of the newspaper alight—much to the amusement of my grandfather, the horror of my grandmother and my delight. My grandfather then let go of the fiery newspaper as the draft up the chimney took it safely into the fire.
Once my fire-lighting duties were over, I spent an engaging hour or so chatting with another who had also not long come back to the northeast. However, he had returned with his wife from living in far sunnier climes than Wiltshire. In his case, it was California and Belize. I mentioned that he must see a difference, especially in the weather. His reply was, “yes, but I missed the seasons". And within moments of him uttering those words, a gust of wind and sudden rain squall machine-gunned the pub windows with heavy raindrops. He and I could only exchange wry smiles as I thought, well, you certainly get seasons in the northeast.
I'm glad you have found your local. Now I feel like a pint but it's another four hours before a trip to my local, the Dandy Lion, this evening. Chin chin.