The Death of the English Pub

A photograph and a few words...

A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there’s more conversation. 

William Blake

The sad news I relate this week is the closure of my local pub, 'The Bisley', which I wrote about some months ago; it, like many small businesses, has suffered the consequences of ever-rising costs and ever-declining numbers of clientele. The closure happened some weeks ago, but I held off putting my fingers on the keyboard until I'd found my new 'local.'

Blaydon has never been a large town with a population almost unchanged for decades. Still, once upon a time, it boasted twelve pubs. With the closing of The Bisley, the number is now down to two. It's not an unusual picture. There have been over 20,000 pub closures in England in the last twenty years. A reduction of some 30%. The English pub is less and less the centre of the community that it once was.

Swallowing my disappointment at the news of The Bisley, the hunt was then on for somewhere I might in future swallow a few beers. Neither of the other two Blaydon pubs appealed. The Black Bull I wrote about in my piece on The Bisley, and I made mention of its less than warming welcome. The other pub, The Huntsman, I did venture into. It had all the character and atmosphere of an empty saucepan. I also felt overdressed compared to the others in there despite my careworn jeans, tired polo shirt and a leather jerkin older than any of my grandchildren (the eldest of those is a student nurse). The Huntsman was not for me.

So, the search for my next local was to see me venture further afield to the nearby town of Winlaton. It is only a mile away, but a solidly uphill mile and up a hill with a steep gradient at that. 

Winlaton is a much older town than Blaydon, dating back to the early Anglo-Saxons. Its name derives from the Angle words, 'Ton' meaning town and 'Win' meaning shrub on a hill. The shrub may have long gone, but as I mentioned, the hill is still very definitely there. Unlike Blaydon, whose trade was mainly in the shipping of coal to Newcastle and lead processing, Winlaton's growth came in the late 17th century from the working of iron. At one point, Winlaton's iron works were the largest in Europe, and the primary customer was the Royal Navy. Those days when 'Britannia ruled the waves'. However, as that rule declined, so did Winlaton's ironworking, although even into the 1960s, Blacksmithing still went on there.

Despite Winlaton being about half the size of Blaydon, it boasts six pubs, all at most a two-minute walk from each other. Whether this reflects the tendency of the Winlaton residents to overindulge in the fruit of the hops, I offer no comment. I was simply happy that I had a choice from which I could select my next 'local'. And although more pubs have survived in Winlaton than in Blaydon, their number has also dwindled from the fourteen that once graced the town. 

Whenever I plan to visit Winlaton, I do so with the feeling Hillary must have had as he faced that final assault on the peak of Everest. There is a fantastic New Wave crime film made in the 1960s that I much enjoy watching called 'À Bout de Souffle'. That title usually translates into English as 'Breathless', which is certainly what I always am when I reach Winlaton.

Once I have caught my breath from the climb, the spectacular views very nearly take it away again. Arnold Bennett said, “It is easier to go down a hill than up, but the view is from the top.” And when it comes to the view from Winlaton, then a couple of miles to the east, there lies the sprawl of Newcastle, with the River Tyne snaking its way through the countryside, then the city and on to the sea. Stretching far into the distance to the west, one sees the beautiful Northumbrian hills and, to the south, the stunning Chopwell Woodland Park. 

But, taking my eyes from the view, it was to my search (and I should point out here that this took place over a few weeks and not one afternoon). My first visit was to ‘The Highlander’ with its attractive mock Tudor-style exterior. I visited early on a Saturday afternoon, and it felt like I’d walked into a library. There were many people inside, but no conversation to be heard, just an avid viewing of the three TV screens high up on the bar's walls. Each showed a different horse race meeting. Yes, this was a 'racing pub', and I ordered my pint sotto voce not to disturb the studied silence of those watching the races. 

As a race ended, there were no shouts of exultation or cries of despair, just a tiny sigh emitted from some and a brief smile offered by others. To a man (and they were all men), they returned to studying their various racing papers and form sheets. Some men would silently lay on their bets using the modern technology of a mobile phone app. While some briefly left the pub to lay on their bets at the conveniently situated bookie just across the road. It took me only a brief time to decide this wasn't the pub for me. I don’t mind a quiet pint, but as heroes of 1950s westerns often said before all hell would break loose, "it's quiet - too damned quiet".

My next visit on my quest took me to 'The Vulcan' that offered in its external advertising a "range of good ales". The pub was neat and tidy inside and out, and I received a few nods, and a couple of chaps offered that habitual northeast greeting "al reet?" as I entered. It felt a comfortable place, and much bantering abounded between the clientele about the merits of NUFC and local rivals Sunderland. The problem was the drink. Not the quality; just getting one. The bar staff had the attitude that this may be a pub, but we care about everyone's sobriety, so our service will be slow and measured. Almost measured in hours, given how long it took for one of the staff to take an interest in pulling me a pint. I wasn't looking to indulge in copious amounts of alcohol, but waiting ten minutes for a beer when there was only a handful of customers felt an awfully long time. Chatting with others at the bar, I discovered this was the norm—a pub for patient drinkers.

The next place I tried was 'The Crown and Cannon', which boasted of being Winlaton's second oldest pub built back in 1780. Next door is supposedly the oldest pub, but I'll share in a moment why I did not try that one first. Anyway, what struck me about the Crown and Cannon was how unlike a Georgian building it looked and how much more it resembled a classical Edwardian style. An architect way ahead of their time, perhaps? Alas, no, as the claim to the pub's age was somewhat tenuous. Yes, a pub built in 1780 did stand on this ground, then demolished in the late 19th century to make way for the pub where I now stood. It was an attractive enough place with its lofty ceilings and decor in keeping with its early 20th-century character. The welcome was warm enough, so it was on my shortlist even though it was a cash-only pub - a rare occurrence these days, especially after the COVID-19 epidemic.

So why didn't I try 'The Rose and Crown' and its boast of being the oldest pub in Winlaton? Well, first, it's a boast that runs along the lines of 'Trigger’s Broom’ of 'Only Fools and Horses' fame. Some bits of the pub may well date to the claimed early 1600s. Still, there is evidence that even as early as 1650, renovations and alterations had begun and have continued through the centuries, along with much extension of the original building. It's known that Oliver Cromwell and his army passed through Winlaton en route to battle in Scotland, and of course, there are stories that he may have enjoyed a beer in the Rose and Crown. It was more than I enjoyed because as I approached it, I saw three very burly fellows standing at its entrance. They might well have been remnants from Oliver's Army and thought me a Royalist, given the look they gave me was armour piercing, and that look never shifted from me.

It was Falstaff, known to like an ale or two, who offered in Shakespeare's Henry IV that "The better part of valour is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life." I, therefore, decided on discretion, and that's why I took a sharp turn to the right and ended up in Winlaton's second-oldest pub. I discovered later the Rose and Crown does indeed have a 'reputation', and therefore, my decision was a sound one.

Now, I don't know if all the pubs named Rose and Crown are of similar ilk. Yet, it happens that the pub of the same name in the Wiltshire town where I lived before moving back to the northeast of England had a similar, somewhat unsavoury reputation.

I recall entering that pub with Sarah not long after we moved to Wiltshire. As we crossed the threshold, the pub fell silent, and all heads turned towards us. The silence one recognises from old Hammer horror films when the strangers enter the tavern. Inevitably, those strangers engage the locals in conversation but then meet a sticky end. On this occasion, Sarah and I didn't linger. One swift drink, and we were off, never to return. The other coincidence was this Rose and Crown was also the oldest in the town, dating from the late 1500s.

Anyway, back to Winlaton and while the Crown and Cannon was pleasant, it didn't knock my socks off, so I continued my search and came upon the Queen's Head. It has been a pub since its building in 1890 and named in honour of the then Queen - Victoria, with the name simply being 'The Queen's'. It took on its present name in 1952. While some renovation has happened, the pub is very much that of the original building.

I felt comfortable as soon as I crossed the threshold. There were no steely-eyed burly characters at the door, just a very warm smile from the landlady and the greeting of "al reet?" from the landlord. These pub owners are a married couple in their late twenties and were happy to chat with a newcomer. I discovered they have a one-year-old and another on the way and come from a family of pub owners, so they know their stuff. Inside, there was a homely feel to the place, and I can testify that they keep a good cellar. The inclusive atmosphere the owners have created in the pub attracts a range of ages who all rub up against each other well. It's what a pub should be, somewhere where the local community can mix whether you are 18 or 80. Prices are reasonable, with draught beer ranging from £2:40 to £3:00 for the more exotic 'continental' lagers. I guess those prices might bring a tear to the eye of those who imbibe in the south of England pubs. 

On that first visit, it was not only the owners with whom I talked but also several of the other patrons. Being an unfamiliar face, they were keen to know what brought me to the pub, not in an unfriendly manner but engagingly, as I briefly recounted my history and my search for a replacement to the Bisley. I walked in a stranger, but when I left an hour or so later, it felt as if I’d made new friends. My search was over; I had found my new 'local.'