BradNaylor
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Following Roger S's recent thread on rural pubs, I want to share my experiences of the last couple of days.
My mate Phil and I have been working out in Cheshire this week, fitting a bedroom and an office in a cottage between Wlmslow and Knutsford. Pics will follow later.
After finishing for the day on Monday, we popped to the local pub for a reviving pint before heading back home.
From the outside it looked just like a traditional village inn. We anticipated roaring log fires, a labrador or two, and horse brasses. Upon opening the oak front door however, we were confronted by an vista of chic metropolitan designer excess. Here is a photo from their website to illustrate;
Slightly thrown but undaunted, we made our way to the bar - built entirely from copper.
'Good evening Sirs' scathed a twenty year old barman with immaculately gelled hair, eyeing our dusty work clothes up and down. He was probably an estate agent until last week.
'Two pints of Landlord please' says Phil, spotting a solitary handpump amid a myriad of elaborate lagar and wine dispensing apparatus. I took a swig of mine as the barman tapped at the till. It was darned good.
So it should have been.
'Six pounds seventy please'
I suspect that £3.35 a pint would be pricey even in London.
Or Oslo!
Needless to say we were the only customers.
We didn't make the same mistake last night. Instead we headed to the pub in the next village, about a quarter of a mile away. The contrast couldn't have been greater.
At 5.30 the car park was already half full of an assortment of tradesmans vans and Land Rovers. As we entered men in overalls nodded acknowledgement to us over their pints. There was far more dust on the walls than there was on our clothes.
My round. Stooping to avoid hitting my head on the oak beams I made my way to the bar. Three handpumps proclaimed Sam Smiths.
'Two pints of bitter, please'. I took a fiver out of my wallet and rummaged in my jeans pocket for loose change in case this wasn't enough.
'Two pounds eighty.'
I looked at Phil. He looked at me. We both looked at the landlady.
'Are you sure?'
'Sorry love' she said. 'It went up last week. Its one forty a pint now'
As we settled in front of the roaring fire fussing with the pub labrador and nursing our excellent £1.40 pints, we reflected on the dichotomy between two pubs a few hudred yards apart, and what this told us about the way the country has gone in the last few years.
I suspect that only one of these pubs will survive the recession. I also suspect I know which one it is.
I very much hope I'm right!
Cheers
Dan
ccasion5:
My mate Phil and I have been working out in Cheshire this week, fitting a bedroom and an office in a cottage between Wlmslow and Knutsford. Pics will follow later.
After finishing for the day on Monday, we popped to the local pub for a reviving pint before heading back home.
From the outside it looked just like a traditional village inn. We anticipated roaring log fires, a labrador or two, and horse brasses. Upon opening the oak front door however, we were confronted by an vista of chic metropolitan designer excess. Here is a photo from their website to illustrate;
Slightly thrown but undaunted, we made our way to the bar - built entirely from copper.
'Good evening Sirs' scathed a twenty year old barman with immaculately gelled hair, eyeing our dusty work clothes up and down. He was probably an estate agent until last week.
'Two pints of Landlord please' says Phil, spotting a solitary handpump amid a myriad of elaborate lagar and wine dispensing apparatus. I took a swig of mine as the barman tapped at the till. It was darned good.
So it should have been.
'Six pounds seventy please'
I suspect that £3.35 a pint would be pricey even in London.
Or Oslo!
Needless to say we were the only customers.
We didn't make the same mistake last night. Instead we headed to the pub in the next village, about a quarter of a mile away. The contrast couldn't have been greater.
At 5.30 the car park was already half full of an assortment of tradesmans vans and Land Rovers. As we entered men in overalls nodded acknowledgement to us over their pints. There was far more dust on the walls than there was on our clothes.
My round. Stooping to avoid hitting my head on the oak beams I made my way to the bar. Three handpumps proclaimed Sam Smiths.
'Two pints of bitter, please'. I took a fiver out of my wallet and rummaged in my jeans pocket for loose change in case this wasn't enough.
'Two pounds eighty.'
I looked at Phil. He looked at me. We both looked at the landlady.
'Are you sure?'
'Sorry love' she said. 'It went up last week. Its one forty a pint now'
As we settled in front of the roaring fire fussing with the pub labrador and nursing our excellent £1.40 pints, we reflected on the dichotomy between two pubs a few hudred yards apart, and what this told us about the way the country has gone in the last few years.
I suspect that only one of these pubs will survive the recession. I also suspect I know which one it is.
I very much hope I'm right!
Cheers
Dan
ccasion5: