I step out of the front door and there is a gentle mist descending. A smoke-like fog. Or perhaps a fog-like smoke, as there is a whiff of burning in the air. Read the rest of this entry »
The twentieth century pub is not just a public house, it is a public home. A home from home. An ideal home. A broken home. It is everything you could want from a home – a refuge, a retreat, a place to entertain, a place to be alone. A place that disappoints, that you grow out of, that you leave. It is somewhere you want to improve, somewhere you never want to change. It is an extension of our identity. A window into our likes, loves, weaknesses and strengths. It is who we are, for better, for worse, richer, poorer. A home.
This is a response to Boak and Bailey’s challenge/competition to write 100 words or so on the 20th century pub, which is also the subject of their latest book.
I sometimes wonder if the archetypal English country pub really exists. There are the country pubs turned gastropubs, country pubs turned children’s play centres with a pub attached, country pubs turned inwards for a select clientele and nobody else, country pubs turned into something else entirely.
I’m never quite sure what to call the parkland around Barnehurst Golf Course. I’ve heard it called a few things. I imagine some names will give away your age, a reference from a past time. Or it might give away that you aren’t from around here, as nobody here calls it what you do.