Four legs and at least two grapes
UK public houses are closing at a steadily increasing rate, in part because of the availability of cheap alcohol from supermarkets, in part because the social and drinking habits of younger people are configured to a different pattern to their elders'. Once plentiful in working villages like my original Yorkshire home or former working villages like Oxhey, where I live now, their numbers decline.
The Haydon Arms, near the green where I access Attenborough's Fields, is now a private dwelling, though we still have The Royal Oak, The Railway Arms, The Villiers Arms, The Rifle Volunteer and The Load of Hay nearby.
In the Yorkshire village of my upbringing, The Crossfield Tavern, The Rose Inn, The Salutation, The White Hart, The Market Inn, The Pickwick, The Old Cart and Horses and The Phoenix (formerly The Green Gate but it burned down and was rebuilt) have all closed, and The Crown Inn has looked unfrequented and probably closed for a long time (in earlier times there had been sufficient business to sustain still more public houses!). That now leaves The Queen's Head and The Pack Horse, together with my brother's and my preferred pub of yore, The Bridge, at nearby Charlton Brook.
I doubt I entered many of High Green's public houses more than a handful of times each (even The Rose Inn, which was within 300 yards of home). But The Bridge was my favoured local, at the junction of Greengate Lane, Springwood Lane and Bracken Hill. It had a quiet lounge bar largely frequented by older customers. The summer after I graduated, before starting work in London, was the time of my greatest use of The Bridge. Thinking myself sophisticated (rather than being the pretentious nitwit I actually was) I tended to finish the evening with a brandy and a cheap panatela. I don't know how the landlord kept a straight face. The walk home was pleasant enough too, as the back road was bordered on the western side by woods and fields.
Of course, a quiet, old-fashioned "fogey-ish" atmosphere, with quiet conversation and conviviality sans uproarious behaviour and blasting music may have been what my brother and I appreciated about a pub's character in those days, but it is precisely the ambience that repels younger clientele. Clearly, we were old even when we were young!
The above list is an indicator of quite how popular pubs were as a locus for socialisation. At the time they were built there were relatively few alternatives for entertainment in small communities. It could reasonably be argued that our village was clearly (for modern circumstances) over-supplied with pubs, but The White Hart, The Market and The Old Cart and Horses are particularly missed. Some pubs that are gone were undistinguished—The Pickwick, particularly, was actually a jerry-built eyesore (though very popular)—but often in small communities there are few buildings of character, and they are usually either churches or public houses. The White Hart was a handsome red brick building of the 1930s with a large car park useful to village shoppers as well as the pub's clientele. Demolished and replaced with a monolithic apartment building that abuts the thoroughfare, the environment now feels oppressively contained while the consequential loss of off-road parking forces residents and shoppers to constrict the flow of traffic with their vehicles now parked on the highway. For the present The Market remains a handsome building with a stone façade (probably early 20th Century) and may survive as part of the development that is currently underway around it, either in a different commercial capacity or a domestic one. The loss of The Old Cart and Horses is sad as it was, I believe, the oldest building left in High Green (dating from the late 18th Century). It is replaced by a Sainsbury's supermarket which has considerably increased—as will development at The Market Inn—traffic congestion in the lower village.
Howbrook, my grandparents' hamlet, was too small to have a pub, the nearest being those in High Green or The Wortley Arms in Wortley.
Some aspects of modern public houses are an improvement on the culture of earlier years. Provision of food is certainly better and of higher quality. Many have built extensions to house a restaurant and, while such additions are often architecturally at odds with the original buildings to which they are attached, the increase of family-orientated facilities provides a better environment than that of the bloke-ish, hard-drinking establishments they supersede. When I was a child, it was still possible to see children with their mothers, sat in the family car outside a pub, trying to enjoy a bottle of pop (soda) and a packet of crisps (potato chips) while their father imbibed inside in the public bar where no children were allowed. Of course, in even earlier times (and especially in poorer urban surroundings), it was possible to see kids simply loitering, unsupervised, outside a pub while their parents became intoxicated within.
The influx of workers into cities in the Industrial Revolution increased demand and so purpose-built pubs became the order of the day, often fine edifices in prosperous districts and rather less splendid establishments in poorer ones.
Originally, pubs (as such) were little other than private dwellings where a license to sell alcoholic beverages for consumption on the premises had been obtained. They differed from inns (or taverns) in that the latter also offered accommodation and generally had been purpose-built since goodness knows when (additionally, taverns were places where business was transacted). As time went on, the terms all became more or less synonymous (the inclusion of the word "inn" within the title of an establishment doesn't necessarily now suggest the availability of accommodation, and "tavern" is is more or less redundant).
By the way, the British equivalent of an American liquor store is an "off-license", deriving from its license to sell alcohol only to be consumed off the premises. In more recent years this facility is also available through supermarkets, petrol stations and so on. It used to be a wrinkle used by shops to enable Sunday opening, as trading laws used to be less restrictive for off-licenses than for other merchants. In the north of England of my youth they were also referred to as "beer-off shops" or a/the "beer-off".
While the law and rules for private clubs could be generally more accommodating to families, there were public houses that permitted families. Usually this was facilitated by a separate room. The most basic pubs had only a public bar or tap room. Larger premises also had a lounge bar, or even additional, more private, partitioned accommodation for small parties of imbibers (often called a "snug"). I remember particularly, from those often-referred-to days in Lincolnshire, that if we were taken to The Prussian Queen in Saltfleetby (an old building that might have been a farmhouse in an earlier life), there was (then) a large, old-fashioned parlour, or domestic sitting room to the rear of the house, where ladies and families could enjoy a rather more refined ambience than at the public bar. It was approached by a long, dark corridor that housed a large Victorian grandfather clock that marked the passing time with its hypnotic, steady, low ticking. The pub itself lay in the wide, flat, romantically bleak hinterland just inland from the coast, and was approached by crossing a bridge over one of the many drainage dykes. It was during a visit to The Prussian Queen that my mother watched the much-anticipated final episode of The Fugitive TV series. In fact, it was the reason for selecting precisely that venue for the evening: televisions in British pubs were quite uncommon in those days, nor were they frequently seen in holiday lodgings. It was quite likely the only way she could catch the show as repeats were then unlikely, or at least rare things, and we had no other access to TV while on holiday.
An alternative family-friendly watering hole was The Waggon and Horses, further inland at South Reston, a rural setting with a view over gentler fields that were formerly edged with poplars. Most pubs with similar names have now adopted the American spelling of wagon—in fact, the English spelling is hardly seen in any context, now. Over a hundred years old, the building had a charming, half-timbered appearance with evidence of barley sugar carpentry and herringbone brick coursing in its porch, and a painted, cut-out elevation of the titular transport as its sign, atop a square-section post: happily, features that are still there. In those days, though, it was bounded on the western side by environmentally sympathetic, low, red brick agricultural outbuildings and on the other by a crab apple orchard contained by neat, black, iron fencing of a kind once commonly seen on Lincolnshire farmland. Sadly, they have since been supplanted by an extended car park and modern housing, with an extension for a restaurant added to the rear of the building. Worse than all else, immediately west of the pub is now a large lot selling motor homes. I haven't been inside the pub in more than fifty years and so can't speak of its current appearance but, all those years ago, the western side was the public bar with a comfortable and old-fashioned lounge in the eastern side where we would be situated. Its walls were decorated with wallpaper featuring hunting scenes and hung with photographs of the local hunt meetings, scarlet coats reduced to grey in the black-and-white images. Beneath them were broad, comfortable, upholstered benches of green velvet to both seats and backs. Access to the bar, to make orders for drinks, was by a discreet, small hatch in the wall. Water for my grandmother's whisky was brought in a small jug with riders in hunting pink decorating the sides, and a spout resembling a fox's head. Best of all, there was, to the front of the pub, a stained-glass window that depicted a farmer driving a wag(g)on and its horses into a rural scene. The dubious ethics of hunting to hounds was lost on me as a child: I merely thought it a colourful rural tradition. Greater awareness of the world has since led to an inescapable view of hunting as "the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable" (to quote Wilde), colourful though it might be. On one visit we were shown a young fox, captive in the aforementioned outhouses. We were not told what its future might be and, at the time, I didn't speculate. I merely found the creature beautiful. Thinking of it now, I doubt the animal's fate was likely to be a happy one. Anyway, all the foregoing seems odd in a sense: the local hunt was traditionally (and even more egregiously, for at least foxes are troublesome vermin to livestock farmers) for otter, dwelling harmlessly in the plentiful dykes round about.
It was the landlady, Mrs Nagg, who had taken us to see the fox. I remember her as small, plump and somewhere north of fifty years old. She was a very friendly, buoyant and animated lady—perfect qualifications for a publican—who reminded me of our primary school head (Principal). She seemed fond of my parents and, especially, my grandmother. Perhaps they both liked an occasional glass of whisky? I don't recall her husband very well, but my brother remembers him as an archetypal publican: large, cheerful and ruddy of complexion... But he didn't often have the chance to say much when the garrulous Mrs Nagg was about. The third, and possibly most memorable, character from The Waggon and Horses was a younger woman called Mary, who worked as barmaid. Whereas the stereotypical barmaid, according to low British comedy, is a voluptuous and flirtatious young woman, in reality, the job obviously employs the full gamut of female humanity. Though she was not old, I found it impossible to estimate Mary's age, so stern and sombre was her aspect. She was a rather disturbing, taciturn presence collecting empty glasses. She was dark and wore a black dress and—ungracious though it is to make comment—hirsute of upper lip. In recollection I think of her as akin to a younger, close relative of Rebecca's Mrs Danvers.
A far drearier, unfriendly place was The Crossed Keys. Traditional names allotted to pubs don't necessarily indicate the age of the establishment so, whereas The Crossed Keys reflects Christian imagery employed in the naming of inns catering to medieval pilgrims, far more recent buildings might adopt such a name without reference to age or meaning. Crossed keys are, originally, a symbol of St Peter. Other historically common pub names from forgotten or neglected Christian symbolism are The Hope and Anchor and The Lamb and Flag.
More recently, in attempts to capture a youthful clientele, many public houses took completely non-traditional names and restyled to become "themed" pubs. I forget the original name of one such, locally here in Watford, but it transmogrified into the desperate-to-be fashionable Shades. Yes. Urgh. The exterior was painted a uniform grey and the new name was placed above the door in large, blue neon capitals. It seemed to me to be an awful place. It certainly didn't revive the fortunes of the failing hostelry and it began to look increasingly neglected. Then the neon began to fail: with almost sublime irony, SHADES became HADES, a far more appropriate monicker (name) to my way of thinking. Before the place finally closed and the site's subsequent redevelopment into a car dealership, the sign was reduced to HAD.
Clearly, in rural and agricultural locations, pubs had been social centres for well-established communities. Greater urban concentrations of workers required a matching increase in the concentration of such centres. But it's an interesting question whether urban pubs retained the same sense of "community" service—as rural ones (it's also a question I can't answer). Maybe the depersonalisation of urban surroundings reduced the broader, communally binding aspect of public house socialisation (but maybe not). There's a thesis in that for a post-grad history student.
Workers in heavy industries like steel manufacture would require replenishment of fluid lost to their physical exertion so I guess steel workers, coal miners and the like must have had a high consumption of beer which, even in the 19th Century, would likely have been more potable than public water supplies. Indeed, I think they even had an allowance for it.
However, most industrialists and entrepreneurs of that period, of course, wouldn't want their workforce to turn up for work intoxicated, nor to adopt the unreliable habits that went with heavy drinking. Some employers were supporters of temperance and some were from religious backgrounds that gave impetus to the building of places of worship. Nonconformism, in particular, gained ground—especially in the industrial north.
In the 19th Century, a number of progressive employers provided community facilities for their workers and some went so far as to build model communities.
In the first instance, facilities for education, recreation, culture, sport and even medical care were provided—a practice that continued with enlightened companies into the 20th Century (Newton Chambers, a company I have mentioned before, was one such). Of course, the rise of trade unions also provided something in that line, as unions established art clubs, orchestras and bands, and systems of welfare.
Whether sponsored by unions, employers or the communities themselves, a strong tradition in the north of England (especially in textile mills or collieries) was—and to some extent, in a slightly different way, still is—the brass (or silver) band, amongst the most famed being the Brighouse and Rastrick Band, The Black Dyke Mills Band and the Grimethorpe Colliery Band, while The Stalybridge Old Band is thought to be the oldest survivor, formed in 1809. Competitions and gala concerts are still held. The sound of such a band is so distinctive that it's often used as an audible shorthand for the north of England, especially the industrial north, and even more especially the 19th Century industrial north. The arrangement for Giulio Briccialdi's Carnival of Venice, used as signature tune of Fred Dibnah's TV broadcasts, was often by brass band for that reason (The Black Dyke Mills Band, I think, though originally it was an arrangement played by Classical flautist James Galway). Similarly, Granada TV (part of the ITV network) chose an augmented brass band arrangement for the sig of their long-running soap opera, Coronation Street, set in the industrial north-west. De-industrialisation has separated many brass bands from their origins, but they remain popular, funded by sponsorship or performance. The scenario of industrial change is captured in the comedy-drama Brassed Off, a film starring Ewan McGregor, where the members of a colliery band have to come to terms with the closure of their pit. The title references the brass band, of course, but it is also a northern expression for being annoyed with disadvantageous circumstances—much as browned off, cheesed off, hacked off, pissed off, dischuffed, sick as a parrot, gutted, etc might be used there or elsewhere).
The most famous British examples of the second instance (model communities, mentioned above about two years ago!) are probably Port Sunlight, Saltaire and Bourneville, built by Lever Brothers (now the much less philanthropic multinational Unilever), the woollen textile manufacturer Titus Salt and the famous Cadbury family of confectioners, respectively.
The advantage to workers was their removal from urban slums to a healthier environment with acceptable domestic plumbing, free of squalor and with less environmental pollution. The community at Saltaire lived in stone-built houses with "wash houses [that had] tap water, bath houses, a hospital [...] an institute for recreation and education [...] a library, a reading room, a concert hall, billiard room, science laboratory and a gymnasium. The village had a school for the children of the workers, alms houses, allotments, a park and a boathouse".
The disadvantage, much outweighed by the positive aspects in purely practical terms, was that the owners' philosophies had to be adhered to by the workers. Understandably, sobriety and even continual temperance might be conditions of employment. Sometimes attendance at religious services of the denomination selected by the employer was expected.
The aforementioned Cadbury family, confectioners in the West Midlands, were Quakers, as were Joseph Fry of Bristol and Henry Rowntree of York. Well into the 20th Century they remained the leading manufacturers of chocolate in the UK (along with Terry's, also of York). Fry's was bought by Cadbury, who retained facilities and the brand, but Cadbury in turn was more recently bought by the American company, Kraft. Kraft immediately reneged on a promise and closed the former Fry's factory. They are also now the owners of Terry's, moving all production overseas. Multinational Nestlé bought Rowntree and also moved production overseas, leaving no large-scale confectionery production in York. Cadbury remains in the West Midlands, but only adverse customer reaction has prevented product-cheapening instigated by Kraft. The UK may not achieve the heights of quality claimed by the best continental chocolatiers, but we loves us chocolate, we do, and we aren't fans of the American style. No one here likes Hershey's. Moving the ex-York production abroad has equally resulted in reduction in quality, and some traditional product lines have disappeared (a box of Terry's Neapolitans was a regular stocking-filler from my parents at Christmastime. I miss them still—the chocolate, I mean, though not as much as I miss my parents—but I try hard not to patronise Nestlé, anyway, if I can avoid it: its business philosophy is sociopathic).
Was I supposed to be writing about pubs?
There were—and are—no pubs in Cadbury's Bourneville because of the founder's Quaker inclinations. It's the only town in Britain that doesn't sell alcohol in its local supermarket. Even some towns not purpose-built by philanthropic businessmen have dry areas for similar reasons: development on land owned by Quakers (or others of the same inclination) exclude public houses by covenants that still apply. Areas of Wimbledon, in London, are bereft of boozers, as parts of Plymouth pooh-pooh the pint.
As with many industries, acquisitions and mergers changed the character of brewing over time, later to be followed by multinational domination. Historically, our local brewery in Watford was Benskin's. The Georgian office building of the brewery remains as Watford Museum, and street furniture is still painted by the local authority in a colour associated with Benskin's.
Practices in the major brewers in the 1960s and 1970s ruined the quality of some beers and gave rise to the abomination that was Watney's Red Barrel. It was during this time that CAMRA was formed: the CAMpaign for Real Ale. The efforts of enthusiasts of traditional quality eventually led the industry into better ways and also instigated the origination of micro-breweries.
The historical major brewers in Sheffield have come to grief: Stones' and any remaining brands now belong to a brand-holding multinational, with production removed to various other locations. Tennant's, similarly, now belongs to a brand-holding multinational. Some products may have disappeared completely by now, for all I know. I don't think there are any of the big, traditional breweries left in Sheffield. However, a 2016 report commissioned by the University of Sheffield suggests that the city might claim to be both the "birthplace of the UK craft beer revolution" and "the real ale capital of the world." Others might suggest that a report commissioned by the University of Sheffield would say that, though the city does have nearly five times as many brewers per head of population than does London.
For all that, from 2000 to 2015, almost 20% of public houses had permanently closed their doors. Pub ownership in 2015 was approximately 20% by brewers, 40% by pub companies, or pubcos (eg Wether-bloody-spoons, owned by Brexiteer Tim bloody Martin) while 40% are independently owned. A much greater percentage used to be owned by breweries, but that declined with the results of globalisation (and the consequential move away from the historical local breweries), and adjustment to laws on tied houses. I think this historical feature of British licensed premises is one forbidden in American law, in order to avoid monopolies. A "tied house," whereby hostelries are contractually bound to stock the products of a single brewery, is the opposite of a "free house" that stocks and sells from various suppliers at the complete discretion of the landlord. A house might be tied because the pub is owned by the brewery, either employing a manager as—or offering a rented tenancy to—the landlord, or where the landlord buys the public house from the brewery on favourable terms, with agreement for supply of beverages forming part of the deal.
As stated, when I lived in High Green, I didn't often visit public houses. As my father's preference was for either Wortley Hall or Wortley Club (where he had memberships), I would happily accompany him there when I was of age, so continuing my pre-drinking childhood familiarity with those venues. My early acquaintance with pubs was limited to those in Lincolnshire when on holiday (also as stated) in my pre-drinking youth.
During public examinations for what were then O-level and A-Level qualifications at 16 and 18 years old, we were illegally fortified at The Sportsman. I don't know how we got away with it, since we would have been in school uniform for the O-level exams and therefore clearly under-age. Some of my year were still under-age at the time of our A-levels, but we weren't obliged to wear uniform by then. A friend tells me that he slept through his Latin O-level as a consequence of his indulgence. Apprehension was created on one occasion, at Christmas, when our English teacher walked into the pub. As it happens, he bought us sandwiches. I hear he's now about to retire, having run a pub, himself for many decades.
As stated, on achieving majority, I was happy to accompany my father to the traditional venues, but my group of friends were from various locations around, and outside of Sheffield. Naturally, we tended to meet centrally, in the city—so I still didn't see much of my immediate locals (a "local" is one's nearest pub). Of a similar mind, we tended towards the unfashionable, favouring The Dog and Partridge, The Albert, The Brown Bear and The Old Queen's Head, all in the heart of the city. The D&P was scruffy, and I suspect remains so, but was divided into cosy smaller rooms as well as the public bar. The Albert was even scruffier but had the virtue of being situated across Barkers Pool from Sheffield's City Hall, venue for the gigs we attended at the time, so it was handy for pre-concert drinks. The pub was demolished some years ago. The BB and The OQH have been tidied up but weren't really scruffy to begin with.
Also not far from the City Hall, The Brown Bear is on Norfolk Street between a neo-classical former bank and a trattoria. The former Ruskin Gallery is two doors away (the last exhibition I saw there—engravings by Dürer—was in about 1980. I think the building serves as offices, now). It's a pleasantly busy part of town and also near the city's Central Library, which is topped by the Graves, one of Sheffield's two main art galleries (the other is the Mappin). The Brown Bear is also handy for both The Crucible and Lyceum theatres. Around the corner, on Surrey Street, there's another pub now called The Graduate. It was originally a Masonic hall or Lodge and, as a pub, formerly known as The Surrey. It had a gym/health club on the floor above called The Fringe: y'know, the Surrey with the Fringe on top. True.
The Old Queen's Head was built around 1475 as a timber-framed building with a jettied upper storey (like 18th Century American Garrison Houses) and it's the oldest surviving domestic building in Sheffield. Situated at Pond Street, The Old Queen's Head is now dominated by urban development including the city bus station. Originally built by the 6th Earl of Shrewsbury as lodging or a place of refreshment for his hunting parties, it was constructed at the (no longer extant) ponds which gave their name to the locality. So it was not always an inn. In 1840 The Old Queen's Head actually opened next door to the older building, expanding into it some years later. The pub's name was probably chosen as a reference to Mary, Queen of Scots, who was imprisoned in Sheffield castle from 1570 to 1584. The castle fared little better than the beheaded queen, being long demolished after ruin in the Civil War, with only the most fragmentary remains at Castle Market.
Title for oldest pub building in England is contested. Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St Albans—not far from us here in Watford—is a contender (based on architectural style), though it cannot be demonstrated that it had a license before 1756. So, while the building may (or may not) be the oldest building that became a public house, there are other public houses which can be demonstrated to have served alcoholic drink from an earlier date.
To close this essay on British public houses and their names, a game we played en famille to enliven car journeys was to ascribe points to pub names and compete in spotting their signs as we drove along. The King's Head would give one point (since a king only has one head), where The King's Arms would give two points (since a king would likely have two arms. No, that's not what "arms" means in proper context, but this is how the game worked). Quadrupedal or human creatures gave four points (eg The White Hart, The Red Lion or The Duke of Cumberland, each having four limbs), singular objects (eg The Ship) only one. The Lamb and Flag would yield five points (four legs and one flag), The Waggon and Horses nine (eight legs on at least two horses and one waggon). The Fox and Grapes? Six: four legs and at least two grapes. The Rifle Volunteer would probably score five, including a point for his rifle. And so on. The pity is that fabulous names like The Sun in Splendour or The Moon Underwater would only score a solitary point each. If there was ever a pub called 100 Maniacs, whoever spotted it would be very difficult to beat.
Also see In your cups.