From the Yorkshire terrier nestled patiently beneath his owner’s stool to the Springer Spaniel who wants to be everybody’s best friend — you have woven your way through a canine labyrinth at some point.
Microbreweries are booming again in England. You’ve unknowingly become a connoisseur of ale — from the latest IPA by Trendy Brewing Co. to the Mysterious Porter by local brewery Hopster.
Whether you smoke or not, there’s no denying that pubs have lost a smidgeon of atmosphere as a result. That true “pub smell” we fondly remember has gone. It’s a bummer of a law, but it’s here to stay.
You’re in England, and it’s sunny. What more reason do you need? You join your fellow pasty pub dwellers in the garden and toast to the Sun God.
Chalked onto a dusty blackboard at the back of the bar is a host of locally-brewed ciders, probably from someone’s bathtub. The alarmingly high percentage alone is enough to get your head spinning. It looks unassuming — clear as water and just as flat. Hold on tight and enjoy the ride.
They’re the definitive tests of your all-round knowledge. You keep a keen eye out for those ‘checking a text,’ and treat them with suspicion. You know they’re secretly googling the answer to the question “What pattern shirt did Rick Astley wear on Top of the Pops, December ’89?” Get the phone away, you swine, and take a wild swing like the rest of us.
Everybody knows their place, and so does the barman / lady. You acknowledge the order of the bar — conscientious queuing is what we do best.
You’ve never been in the area, but you’re parched. You decide ‘The Rusty Axe’ seems an appropriate watering hole and settle down with your pint. The few inhabitants have all turned towards you with disapproving stares, but there is no chance you’re abandoning your beverage. You trooper.
Enough said.
The greatest of endurance tests (and the best choice for a zombie apocalypse). Where the atmosphere varies from hushed concealment of your private gathering to the fever pitch of a free bar.
Three pints clasped between both hands in a holy trinity, two bags of crisps clenched between gritted teeth of determination. You confidently stride back to your table. You dodge rogue Spaniels, bustle through crowds and triumphantly plant the goods down. Before heading back to pick up your own pint.
Whether it’s snooker, pool, or darts. All great future champions once honed their skills in a pub. You will have almost certainly tried your arm at darts. Until the game abruptly ends when you lodge one into the wall, narrowly missing a punter.
Though they’re wizard-like creatures who rarely get involved with trivial matters like pouring pints. Landlords lurk in the shadows, patrolling the lines. You know, should anything serious happen, they are your go-to option.
These are the ever present, fabled souls who are the very face of the pub they represent. A breed close to extinction; they must be cherished. Once you have earned their trust, you will forever have pub sanctuary.
The bell rings. The heart sags.
The Bat & Ball, The White Hart, The King’s Head, The Red Lion, The Tickled Trout — there is undoubtedly more than one in the country, but you will always have your regular haunt. The place where all of life’s problems can be solved over a cold (or warm) pint, here’s to the English pub! 