Pondering Pubs in a Ploughpoint

Saturday 10th October 2020

Let's start with a Partridgism...

Can I shock you? I hate pubs, despite what I said earlier.

"I love a good pub. Just like my Dad, I'm perfectly happy to walk into a nice one on my own and sit in a corner with a pint. In fact, I'm doing that right now as I write these words.. "

Me, April 2018

Even 6 months ago I would have said the very same, but not now. So, what went wrong..?

Well, what with One Thing Or Another happening this spring/summer, nobody went to a pub for a good while anyway. During the forced hiatus from a lifetime's habit, my feelings for them started to change. Absence made the heart grow colder it seemed.

I spent a bit of time thinking about the reasons why this long term relationship has soured on a sober solo overnight stay at my local 'permission' woods this weekend. Sober because I'm doing 'Stoptober', for my sins. I have not fallen out of love with booze just yet by any means, but I do occasionally have a breather to give my liver, wallet and waistline a bit of a holiday. I managed 2 solid months during lockdown without a drop for instance - probably the longest single stretch on the wagon since I was a teen. 

I shall intersperse my report on this tea fueled mini expedition with a list of grievances against my abusive ex -  The English Public House.

Reason 1 - Expense

Alcohol in pubs is ridiculously expensive compared to buying it from a shop. I know publicans will argue valid reasons for this, but the fact is, as a regular punter you really feel it. If I add up how much money I have handed over to landlords and ladies in my life, it must be many tens of thousands of pounds. That's an awful lot for someone who has never even been able to afford his own car... Yet never, ever, in 30 years have I been offered a pint 'on the house'. Not once.

A sense of déjà vu has been creeping up on me with regards to the weather this last week or two - we seem to be heading into another camping-unfriendly Autumn. It has rained most days for the last fortnight, making a weekend camp an unattractive proposition overhead and underfoot. But I had to get out, and Saturday afternoon was forecast as 'showers' rather than 'pissing down' so I thought I'd brave it anyway. So off I headed, on foot from my front door, for a good few miles with 17kg on my back, looking like a sexy Bob Fleming.

I was trying a new approach to the clothing, opting not to stay dry using barely breathable plastic rain jackets and ponchos which make you sweat like Michael Jackson at a Scout Jamboree, but to go with some new woolen layers that should still repel showers quite well, but keep me warm even when drenched. This traditional approach is nowt new to many experienced outdoors folk, but it took a leap of faith to give it a try myself.

Topping off this leafy ensemble was a hat gifted to me by my mate from daarn saarf Jamie Tolley, a club promoter, DJ and producer I've had the pleasure of working with this year, and who shares a love of the outdoors. It's a multicam bucket hat but with enamel pin badges from the RSPB all around it, depicting some of our feathered friends. Love it Jamie, thank you!

Reason 2 - The Barbarism of The Bar

If there's one thing we Brits are famous for worldwide, it's our politeness in queuing for buses, shop service etc etc. We pride ourselves on a sense of fairness in that respect. That is, until we walk into an establishment serving alcohol, when the exact opposite becomes the norm : we scramble for attention all at once, any sense of queuing now a nonsense. Why is this? It makes no sense, and makes acquiring the very thing we came in for to relax, unnecessarily unpleasant and stressy. There are no two more irritating words in the English language than a bar person asking 'who's next?'. You should KNOW who's next mate, that's your job. They manage it in bustling Dublin bars, and heaving Milanese cafes - why can't you keep a track of 7 sad cases in this dingy dive? When the pubs looked like they were reopening this July, there was talk of it all being fair table service, or orderly queues, or maybe even ordered in advance on an App. So they CAN think about managing things in a civilised manner when they are on their arse. Why haven't they been doing it all along then? Grrr...

My walk to the woods took an hour and a half, and there were quite a few heavy downpours on the way, but I remained dry enough, and at a nice temperature. The freshness in the air was really pleasant, still a novelty after the stuffiness of summer. Insects were finally buggering off too. I was enjoying it!.

I arrived at 3pm with a good 3 hours of daylight left, and yet I only just managed to set up camp properly before dark. Apart from the usual timewarp that is prepping wood for the fire (I needed LOTS as I had a very long, slow meal to cook tonight...) I also wanted to fashion a primitive pot hanger, something I'd never tried before. Add to this my first proper go at a new type of shelter and it was a close call.

The shelter was a tarp in the 'plough point' setup, which involves making a simple open sided triangular type shape using a tree as a pole. I had done it before, a good while back on a day camp, but making it work for sleeping, sitting, and a fire in the rain was new to me. I was glad of it as there were still showers on and off during the early evening, but I had plenty of room for all admin underneath. The sheer amount of recent rain meant that firewood wasn't at its easiest to get going, but I managed with the help of some preprepared helpers like cotton wool balls dipped in Vaseline, and slivers of resinous, flammable 'fatwood' I'd harvested from Scots Pines earlier in the year. Oh, and a lighter... no fannying around with sparks tonight, thank you very much. I wasn't videoing, so no need to be too pretentious. 

Reason 3 - The Lack of 'Hospitality' - Case Study 1

This is the biggie, and is based on my own personal experiences over the years. I'm sure many will say I'm just unlucky, but it is the only reality I can base a judgement on. I have come to the conclusion that many English pubs are at best lacking a basic knack of making their customers feel welcome, and at worst seem to exhibit downright contempt. This is perhaps best illustrated with case studies. Here's the first :

The nearest of my three village locals. A prime location at a scenic spot with lots of through traffic, it was closed for months for an expensive makeover. When it reopened, after a very brief honeymoon period where it was ok, the new landlords soon took the piss with a lack of basic stock. Of the many fancy world beers apparently on pull at the bar, there was only ever a bog standard lager, bitter, and Guinness available. Snacks? Forget it. Many a time there was not a bag of nuts, or crisps, in the entire place. They would always say 'we are awaiting a delivery' or 'the van is broken so we can't go to the cash and carry' etc. This happened every time I went in, over the course of a few years. I would wait a few weeks between visits to see if their luck changed, but it never did. There were three shops within a 2 minute walk nearby where emergency snacks could have been bought, but it was obvious they were running an absolute minimum, skeleton operation to justify being called a pub. I've heard theories about cheap/free rent scams etc but whatever it was, it got so irritating that it was almost comedic. The pub shut eventually of course - it was always empty. It also suffered a fire. It is currently having a makeover from a local brewery after many years closed. I doubt I'll be giving it another chance.

Once the fire was going I had to get tea (dinner if you're posh) on sharpish. I wanted to make a lamb stew, which would need a long time (like, hours) to slowly cook, tenderise and reduce over a low heat, hence the primitive pot hanger I'd whittled. After a decent start learning some very basic bushcraft skills a couple of years back, I have neglected to build on them much since, maybe because I'm so busy with cameras recently. So the pot hanger was a new challenge, and I was pleased it worked. 

Into a billy can went neck of lamb, a leek, a parsnip, and a sweet potato (all chopped); rosemary and bay leaves from the garden; a vegetable stock cube and plenty salt n' pepper. This all got topped up with water (I would have used beer or wine if I wasn't being boring), and hung up above my new Bushbox XL twig stove for most of the evening gently bubbling away, with the odd stir. It didn't stick at all, and reduced down eventually to a thick, sweet soup with big chunks of melt in the mouth lamb. Absolutely perfect grub for a chilly Autumn night outdoors.

I climbed into the 'fartsack' (as excellent YouTubing Valleys boy Dragon Outdoors charmingly refers to his sleeping bag) around half ten, after lighting the candle lantern and stocking up the fire for a bit of pleasing, flickery mood lighting. Despite the copious cups of tea and lack of booze I dropped off pretty swiftly, enjoying a decent enough night - cosy and warm, but marred by a combo of my damn knee (all the kneeling down prepping wood had done it in again) and the standard full bladder.

Reason 3 (cont.) - The Lack of 'Hospitality' - Case Study 2

As 'Case Study 1' played out, I started to frequent the next nearest local more often - I had been spreading myself between the two for many years, doing my bit to support both. This one also did decent enough food, so it became a default place for family eating when we didn't want to drive. Again, many years were spent going in on average two or three times a week. It was an expensive pint in there but well stocked at least. It took the best part of a decade for them to remember my name, despite opening countless tabs using it. I generally sat in a corner on my own for a bit of peace but occasionally noticed up at the bar some of the staff and middle aged male regulars being a bit bitchy about other regulars when they weren't there. All the more reason to keep myself to myself.

Then, one packed Friday evening a couple of years back I went up to the bar and the landlady asked me loudly, and in earshot of everyone nearby, if the rumours were true : that I'd been having an affair, my wife had found out, kicked me out of the house, and I was now living with my 'fancy woman'. This was from a lady who struggled to remember my name after a decade as a regular. Gobsmacked, I assured her nothing could be farther from the truth and returned to my seat confused and angry. Who knows how many people in that pub heard that... some may have been parents of other kids at my kids school.  What if my kids heard this rumour? After a while the landlady said ' Oh forget it, I may be getting you confused with someone else'. 

Now, anyone that knows me at all will vouch that for all my many sins and vices, the idea of furtive philandering and adultery is thoroughly repugnant to me. I'm very old fashioned in that respect. Anyway, I was, and remain, extremely happily married. After that night, I never set foot in that establishment again. Time to find a new local...

____________________________

Dawns are already quite late by now (half 7ish) but that didn't stop the BASTARD crows from starting their arrogant bullshit from around 6am. Still, it meant I was up in good time to see the sun rise. I did something I don't often have time to do at this spot - go for a wander. I realised I was nearer to the woodland's Eastern edge than I thought, and so I watched the colours change from purple through orange to yellow as the sun emerged over the fields.

It was a chilly 6 degrees celsius but I didn't feel any need to use the thick down coat I had packed - the two single woolen layers were perfectly warm enough for me to stand around comfortably. I think this could be the way forward. The sky cleared more and more as the morning progressed, with any threat of showers long gone. It's so often the very best part of a camp when you share a golden, peaceful morning with the birds, and this was no exception.

Reason 3 (cont.) - The Lack of 'Hospitality' - Case Study 3

Running out of walking distance options, the only one left was a bit more of a hike but still doable. Thankfully it was at least devoid of rationing and potential family wrecking -  the relief of which was just enough to counter its numerous (ahem) 'quirks', such as :

• It was often just on the edge of comfort, temperature wise. It had one of those fake fireplaces that looked nice but gave out virtually no heat. I used to have to sit in front of it in my hat, coat and scarf to take the edge off. The landlord seemingly never took this as a hint to turn the central heating up to a welcoming, cosy temperature.
• I spent many a time stood at the bar for up to 10 minutes simply waiting for someone to physically turn up and serve. They were either in the kitchen (I presume), or outside having a fag. Other locals would often take pity and yell for service on my behalf - something I would never do, and shouldn't have to.
• The landlord had a touch of the Basil Fawlty about him. He could sometimes be very charming, and he made a fuss of small kids, and cracked jokes with certain diners etc. Never with me though. He wasn't offensive by any means, he just exuded a sense of mild exasperation around 80% of the time, which was no doubt just an unfortunate natural demeanor and nothing personal. It took a while of me feeling quite uncomfortable though, wondering what I'd done wrong, before I got used to it. It's not a great vibe for hospitality is it? One occasion when he did overstep the mark though was when I went with the family, ordering a pint and a half of Guinness for me and the wife, a hot chocolate for my daughter, and a coke for my son. He angrily asked me if the half a Guinness was for my 15 year old girl. Taken aback, I said of course not.. it was for my wife. I still can't work out what prompted that outburst, but accusing a regular of such lawbreaking and bad parenting is a very bizarre approach.
• During school holiday weekdays, it was closed in the day. Exactly when families could enjoy a stop off on a nice country walk. This is despite it also being a hotel.
• The guy who had seemingly neglected the 'Case Study 1' pub was now always in this gaff propping up the bar - and even started pulling pints behind it. He was very amenable and I tried not to let this rankle, but I can't lie, it did a bit.

I put up with these little 'idiosyncrasies' until The Unspeakable News Event happened, and to my surprise I haven't missed the place one bit since. Sorry!

Brekkie time! Coffee to start with. A bit more wood was prepped and the Bushbox fired up. No slumming it with Nescafe this morning - it was Lavazza in a proper Moka. I see these used quite a lot on YouTube vids from fellow wild campers, but at the risk of being a snobby twat I've noticed they often aren't using the correct type of coffee grounds - they use course filter coffee, rather than the much finer, dustier espresso. It works, but doesn't give anywhere near the thick, rich unctuousness of the proper stuff for pots like this. It tasted particularly good out of my carved Scandinavian kuksa cup - a birthday pressie to myself earlier in the year. 

Reason 3 (cont.) - The Lack of 'Hospitality' - Case Study 4

This one is frankly flabbergasting and I can't quite believe it happened, some years later...

There is a boozer a very short scooter ride away, but too far to walk. Its unique selling point is, and always has been, its location - it has just about the best view of any pub I've ever come across, being situated on a hill looking west over the Cheshire plain. On a clear day from the beer garden you can see Snowdonia, The Liverpool waterfront, supposedly even Blackpool Tower if you are very lucky. I liked it so much that my wife and I had our wedding photos taken there 17 years ago. I would pop there rarely and spontaneously on the scooter after work on a nice evening, or any other time when I fancied a swift single pint whilst watching the sunset. This in itself wasn't unproblematic, as often the ad hoc nature of my visits meant I didn't have cash on me, yet there was a £10 minimum spend for card transactions - no use if I could only have 1 pint safely. Even on occasions where I wasn't driving, I asked if I could keep a tab to get the final bill over a tenner, but was told in no uncertain terms that they didn't have time for any of that nonsense. So there was one occasion where I bought three pints and 2 packets of nuts at once just to reach the limit to be allowed to pay. I watched pint 2 and 3 get warmer and flatter as I drank pint one. Nice eh?

But that was nothing compared to what came later. One crisp and sunny Sunday afternoon in late winter I cleaned the Vespa, and decided she looked so gleamingly attractive in the golden hour that I'd take a spin to said pub, take a pic or two of her in front of that lovely sunset view, and enjoy a pint as reward for my labours on the chamois leather.

Anticipating the 'cash only' problem, I scavved a tenner from the missis, and scooted off. 5 mins later I parked her up in position, and decided the best shot was to be taken from their decking - usually busy, but empty today, presumably on account of it being rather nippy. I had to work quickly as the sun was setting. Unfortunately some eejit had badly parked a big ostentatious BMW in front of the steps to the customer decking, which I had to maneuver round to get up there, muttering 'typical Beamer' under my breath. I took the snap and was just replacing my lens cap when an irate man came storming out, flailing arms and ranting at me.

Turns out he was the landlord. In this ensuing tirade it transpired he was pissed off that I was using his car park for the view, was photographing and enjoying the 60 miles of scenery that lay to the West without spending any money, using the decking when he didn't want any customers on there today (he never said why), but most of all that he witnessed the corner of my coat brush against the paintwork of the very Beamer he had placed there to stop customers enjoying said view. At one point he grabbed the Vespa and started shaking it, asking me how I liked it, nearly knocking it off its stand. 

The offending photo...

I stayed calm throughout and when he had got it all off his chest I produced the tenner from my coat pocket and assured him that I had intended to buy a pint, but that I certainly wouldn't entertain the idea now, or ever again. I also asked him if he wasn't worried about me writing up this staggering incident on TripAdviser or the like. He then went into a sob story about how 'he can't even do his job without being threatened by bitter customers slagging him off on TripAdviser all the time'. 

I assured him that it was not my style to do such a thing normally, and after explaining his inappropriate behaviour to him I proposed that if he rethought his conduct and stance, and apologised uncategorically, here and now, I would refrain from going public with the incident. He very quickly made a complete u-turn and apologised.

A quick check on TripAdviser when I got home revealed a comedic cavalcade of cantankerous corkers folk had reported from this man and his pub. It had one star overall. 

I hear it is now under new management, hence why I feel I can finally allude to it publicly here. I wish them the best of luck but I shan't be risking a return.

Scran was essentially bacon and egg rolls, except I used thick bacon steaks, which flame grilled very nicely. Once they were cooked, I transferred them to the billy can (cleaned out after last night's stew of course) and hung it above the fire to keep warm whilst I did the eggs in a non-stick pan. Bloody lovely it was, despite an eggy beard.

I've already mentioned the reckless orgy of tea drinking from the night before. Tea is my favoured brew at home, but I don't drink it when camping as I find it a bit rubbish with powdered milk. But recently I got hold of some UHT semi skimmed sachets and a nice new Trangia kettle, so this may be the future for my wildcamp suppin'. 

 It was a relaxed morning all round, and I didn't start to think about packing up until around 11. Before I did I took some last snaps of the tarp setup and sleeping arrangements. 

Inside the faithful and spacious British Army GoreTex bivvy was a new synthetic bag, the Mountain Hardwear Lamina 15, which is supposedly good down to  -9c, but is not much heavier than (and packs down nearly as small as) my winter down bag. It's a proper restricted 'mummy' style shape, and at just over 6 foot I'm right at the limit for the regular size, but it was particularly cosy, and for once I only wore one layer of clothing underneath with no cold moments whatsoever during the night. 

Packup was relatively straightforward, hindered only by the multitude of black beetles which seemed to scurry underneath anything I put on the floor for more than a second - bit of a pain to roll up stuff like the mattress and bivvy without crushing them.

Reason 3 (cont.) - The Lack of 'Hospitality' - Case Study 5

Last one I promise...

A big, posh, fine dining country pub out in the sticks at the Southern tip of the county, a good hour and a half away. One which I have mentioned in a positive light during my write ups on the Vespa tour of Wales a couple of years back, despite having not visited at that point - I did so as a leap of faith as I had mates who had close links to it, that's all I'll say... I have only dealt with this pub on two occasions since, and yet they managed to make a very bad impression in three ways.

• Before my first visit , I wrote them a polite and lengthy email inquiring about the possibility of camping on their considerable grounds. It was a long way from home, but I wanted to support an event there, and put some beer money into their till. I offered to pay a decent campsite rate of course. I never got a reply either way. Not the biggest sin, sure, but a bit lazy. 
• I did go to the event anyway, although it was much more inconvenient not being able to stop (I wasn't shelling out over a ton for one of their rooms, I can tell you). One of the things they like to big themselves up about is their outdoor pizza service - you can order, be served and eat a pizza in their beer garden. Great. Just what the family wanted on a sunny weekend afternoon. But upon reaching the front of the queue, we were told there was AT LEAST AN HOUR AND A HALF WAIT for pizza. No discount for the wait mind, you paid upfront and just had to wait patiently and hungrily until they got round to you. Why? Because they lacked appropriate facilities to adequately cater for the customers they had enticed there, that's why. 
• Not impressed, I nevertheless went back a year later. I had done a DJ gig in Birmingham on the May Bank Holiday, and I decided I would scoot back via this pub on the Monday, meet up with a mate who lived near, then camp in the woods over the road (I was a wild camper by this point and so needed nobody's permission...). I could then go straight to work at dawn the next day. All sorted, I met the mate at 5pm and we started chewing the fat and supping the ale. Lovely end to a great weekend. Except the manageress decided that she wasn't going to keep the pub open just for a couple of mere drinkers like us, and we had to leave as she was shutting the pub - at 7pm. ON A BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY. They had made their money on their famously elusive pizzas earlier in the day, and were clearly irritated at the thought of seeing out the usual shift for any more pesky customers. The long planned, and so far very pleasant, meeting was cut short. The more and more I think of this last stinker, the more enraged I get. Particularly when this pub and its regulars have been publicly vocal about lending it support during the tough times recently. 

I headed home under an increasingly warm midday sun, listening live to the Feed Your Head radio show on Kane FM - a weekly ritual for folk into the kind of tunes I tend to make. The visibility was superb - I don't think I've ever seen such detail on the far off Welsh mountains.

So, what's to become of a man who made pub visits a major part of his leisure time for 30 years, hasn't been near one for 6 months, and now isn't really interested in them? Well firstly, lets acknowledge The Pachyderm In The Chamber. Notice I haven't talked about the role of pubs in fighting The Big Global Problem We All Face At The Moment in my beefs, really. It's enough to say that even if I still loved pubs I wouldn't go near one these days, and would stay away until This Has All Blown Over. By which I mean vaccines, which could be years. Certainly, we stand no chance of ridding our country of it any time soon, mainly because people keep making fundamentally selfish hedonistic choices, like, well .. going to pubs for instance. Every extra day I feel the pub to be an unwise and unsafe place to go, is another day I go without paying through the nose for a grumpily served draught beer in an invariably dirty glass. Thus the more I am cured of this odd lifestyle choice which defined many a day in my life before March 20th, 2020.

I don't wish to make light of all the people faced with losing jobs in hospitality, I feel for most of them, I really do. And not all pubs are bad of course. Just the ones I tend to be lumbered with. I don't feel too bad for the folk running those ones I'm afraid. Through personal traumas like divorce, redundancy, and bereavement, I still supported their businesses, but they never once gave a shit about my problems. I'm not going to lose sleep about them now.

That said, I'm not going to rule out ever stepping foot in any pub ever again. I reserve the right to have a few scoops with a meal in a post pandemic world of course. But I won't be going there alone to sit in a corner and sup a few as I used to. There will no doubt be occasions when I meet up with friends or family in a place where none of us can entertain guests, the weather isn't great, and we need a mutual, public indoor place to sit and converse whilst having a drink. It would fulfill a need, a means to an end. I still love the idea of social drinking. But if I manage to have a few sociable pints any time soon, it's gonna have to be outdoors, safely distanced, and away from crowds. I've only done this once so far, with my mate Jack this summer - a chilly, tipsy and wasp laden afternoon under a tarp, which he described as 'shit'. He missed the pub, bless him. We had a good laugh though.

Despite the fine Autumn weather, the few miles back home from camp weren't as pleasant as on the way in. It was hot, I was tired, my knee hurt, and blisters were forming on the balls of my feet. The pack felt heavier, despite being a few kilos lighter. Hills seemed steeper. I ran out of water quite early in the day and was spitting feathers.

'God' I thought. 'I could murder a pint...'

©Rich Lane/Cotton Bud 2020