This is going to take some imagination. The pub we went to today is not here - this is a Goathland pub instead but it illustrates the atmosphere. The shindig with thirty people was nice and the food great but it was only when guests were leaving this 16th century pub and I was sitting alone in a comfy armchair in one of the small, low-ceilinged rooms with the old panelled windows before me that I realized how much I missed this culture.
Over the windows were cloth ruffles, for want of the correct term and many old-fashioned and even twee things plus an open fire crackling to the left. What there most certainly was was peace and through the windows, the darkness outside gradually descended. How I love the northern winter when the sun, such as it is, goes down about four o'clock in late December.
Near the door of the inn was a framed poem and I might have known it would be the Desiderata:
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. [B]e at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
For those whose past years have been spent in these isles, experiences such as today's are par for the course. But for someone coming back from a long sojourn "out there", there was really something quite special, not only in the day's doings but in the banter and topics people were chatting about, from Clootie Dumplings to Monkey Shoulder whisky.
By the way, my beer was Marston's Smooth and it was in fine form, from a newish barrel and hand-drawn pump. The head was foaming.
It was almost like coming home.
Over the windows were cloth ruffles, for want of the correct term and many old-fashioned and even twee things plus an open fire crackling to the left. What there most certainly was was peace and through the windows, the darkness outside gradually descended. How I love the northern winter when the sun, such as it is, goes down about four o'clock in late December.
Near the door of the inn was a framed poem and I might have known it would be the Desiderata:
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. [B]e at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
For those whose past years have been spent in these isles, experiences such as today's are par for the course. But for someone coming back from a long sojourn "out there", there was really something quite special, not only in the day's doings but in the banter and topics people were chatting about, from Clootie Dumplings to Monkey Shoulder whisky.By the way, my beer was Marston's Smooth and it was in fine form, from a newish barrel and hand-drawn pump. The head was foaming.
It was almost like coming home.
We spell them as clootie in Scotland. My grandmother used to make one for every Christmas meal. She would put silver coins wrapped in cooking paper in the mixture, so you had to be careful not to bite too hard.
ReplyDeleteAnother memory was her always wanting the Parsons Nose on the chicken. Luckily nobody else wanted it much.
Sounds like fun :-)
ReplyDeleteI have actually eaten in the pub you show in your picture. I have pictures of me taken sitting by the windows to the left of the building. So I can just imagine the place you were in today.
Parson's nose - brrrr.
ReplyDeleteCherie - you might have seen me if you were at the Mallyan Spout. It was my local.
I couldn't think of a better place to live, it is one of my favorite parts of the country. My Dad's side of the family lived Whitby, Lythe, Hinderwell and Grosmont going way back into the 1700s until my grandfather had to leave due to unemployment.
ReplyDeleteIt was about 6 years ago when I last visited Goathland and we stayed here. It is not too far away from the Mallyan Spout, I have always thought it would be a lovely place to stay at Christmas time.
Yes, I know that one as well. That whole area, the Esk Valley was where I roamed many years ago.
ReplyDeleteMmmmm.
ReplyDeleteMemories of the Pub you picture.
Ahh a decent pint of bitter in a pleasant pub with good company.. Bliss! Amazingly we do have one decent pub in Romford - the Golden Lion, a former coaching house. It dates back in parts to the 15th century.
ReplyDeleteI cant say I;ve ever eaten clootie dumplings though.
The demise of the pub culture is one of the most damning indictments on the government's stealth taxing. It is no less than social engineering by stealth as well, as far as I can see.
ReplyDeleteI think most people are aware that if a person buys a twelve or six pack at ASDA, then goes home and drinks them in front of the tele, this is not the same social bonding as if he were in a pub communicating about the topics of the day.