Wait until next year

The Tamworth Tap is a three-time CAMRA National Pub of the Year. I felt a degree of trepidation before entering. There’s always a worry with anything so acclaimed that it might not live up to its billing, might be a disappointment, might be something I just don’t get.

I get this feeling with books, films, TV, as well as pubs. I don’t think it is quite inverted snobbery, a sense that if something is popular it can’t be good. More, I think it is a feeling that perhaps my tastes might not be calibrated with those who have brought forth the praise. And this is even more keenly felt with anything CAMRA. It is a good organisation, doing good things, but sometimes the pubs its members value can be…odd choices. Other times they get it spot-on, but there is no guarantee. I have spent a few afternoons collared by a CAMRA Man telling me their pub philosophy and their views have rarely matched mine.

So, trepidation, hesitation, doubt.

I need not have worried. The Tamworth Tap is wonderful, majestic even. It is a validation of whatever process CAMRA undertake when choosing their pub of the year. It’s as good as a pub could be. It’s one of those places where you just keep ticking off your list of what would be in your dream pub.

There are lots of nooks to tuck yourself into. Little booths created out of old pews. A bar as a beacon in the middle, with an old illuminated off licence sign guiding you to a thoughtful selection of cask, keg and spirits – a mix of modern, unusual and old classics. Old Belgian beer ads adorn a wall. Pub memorabilia is dotted about to pique your interest or trigger your nostalgia. Hops and fairy lights hang off the ceiling to soften the corners. Even the music is perfect, a great selection at a volume that’s the ultimate sweet spot – where it masks the chat of others but isn’t so loud that you can’t be heard yourself. Everything adds to a feeling of welcome, cosiness, a home from home.

And then the food! Not just a textbook selection of weird and wonderful crisps (Grouse and Whinberry, anyone?), but also rolls at the bar and freshly cooked snacks from the kitchen out back, essentially pub tapas without any of the pretension that phrase might suggest, something to keep you going but nothing to fill you up, including “frickles” – fried pickles that might just be the perfect accompaniment to a pint.

And then there’s the people. The staff are friendly, helpful, well-informed but not overbearing. The patrons are mixed – not always a given in a place like this. Old boys, solo drinkers, families, a good balance of male and female It is not overrun by Beer Tourists (apart from, of course, myself) and all the better for it. This is somewhere that is lived in, frequented, nurtured, supported, a real living pub rather than an exhibit of pub-ness.

There’s even a display above the door showing the next train times from Tamworth, for if you decide that perhaps its a little too hasty to start a new life here and that you better get home at some point.

One of the greats.

The World’s Greatest Pub Blogger, RetiredMartin, will occasionally consider a pub one of his Top 100. This place, The King Billy, is one of them. And rightly so. It is unlikely I will ever visit as many pubs as Martin, and will certainly never reach his levels of Pub Expertise, but this pub is definitely in my top 100 too. And probably quite high in that list too. It’s a magical pub.

Sometimes you enter a pub and right away know that it just works. It is cosy, almost a little too cosy for comfort, but that gives it this immediate sense of hubbub and homeliness and place. There are different spaces, each with a slightly different feel, yet all part of a whole.

There’s a bar in the middle that feels a little like a cockpit, serving each space and orchestrating the pub-ness, driving it even, a centrifugal force that influences the whole interior, that doesn’t just hand out the drinks but sets the tone, the feel, the fun.

All good pubs feel like someone’s living room. A public house, public home. The King Billy feels like the living room of someone’s particularly barmy aunt, and I mean that as the highest praise. The walls are covered in old paintings. Toby jugs line a wall. Knick knacks abound. A framed advert of a local visit from Su Pollard. A slightly creepy doll training a stuffed bear. A tartan carpet, a means of ensuring that even the floor isn’t plain. Detail, texture, stuff, everywhere.

The Cup Final is on but there is enough entertainment in just scanning the walls. You can look around and piece together a whole history.

A man drinks from a pewter jug, another good sign. I love pubs where the regulars have their own receptacles. There’s scattered chat about the game, differences of opinion sportingly accepted. A man yells “Get that flag up!” Couples chat with half an eye on the telly. A man on his own spreads out a set of postcards on his table, takes a photo of them. Soon it’s half-time.

There’s a tremendous selection of cask and keg, and a just as good a selection of snacks. Life is good with a well-kept pint and a packet of honey mustard pretzel pieces. It’s a good place to stop after wandering around Nottingham’s trendy Sneinton Market. Catch your breath. Plan your next move.

Like all good pubs you can make it whatever you want it to be, but I think it is probably at its best with a quick pint on your own on a Saturday afternoon, with a bit of people-watching, a bit of football-watching and a bit of pub-watching.

Top 100, easily.

I’ve been thinking a bit about pubs as second homes, surrogate homes – public houses as public homes. That sometimes you are away and need to sit somewhere familiar, homely, rather than a sterile hotel room. That sometimes you might be at work and need a break, somewhere to ground yourself, a refuge, an escape – a lunchtime pint or somewhere to decompress on your way home. 

These aren’t necessarily places you frequent, some of these places you might only visit once. But there is something about being able to read the language of a pub, to know if it is the right kind of place for what you need. Will it be welcoming or pleasantly diffident? Do you want company or anonymity? A comfy corner to slouch into or a sturdy bar to hold you up?

And then there are the pubs that you go to regularly, that really feel like a home from home. The places that offer a familiar setting, familiar faces, a familiar welcome. A place that reminds you that you have a place in the world, that you are part of a community, that there is something wider out there than the individual. There is such a thing as society.

The Bird and Barrel is that pub for me. As much as I don’t go in there as often as I might like to, when I really need a home from home, a refuge, an escape or just the right kind of pub for a sit-down and a decent pint it is the place I head. 

On first appearances it is your typical shopfront single-roomed micropub, but the single room then leads through to a lovely secluded garden and a second room out back for events, hire or just overspill on busy days. 

It is run by the family behind Bexley Brewery and that family feel permeates everything they do. There is nothing impersonal about it and you can really tell that their beer and their pub are a reflection of their whole family – a real mix of perspectives pulling together to produce something distinctive, honest and, well, good. 

The pub has a mix of beer, both from Bexley Brewery and elsewhere. You might find yourself talking to the head brewer as he pours you a brand-new beer, or you might end up drinking something unusual from the rest of the UK, or on occasion the rest of the world. You’re essentially getting a brewery taproom and a well-curated craft pub in one.

The pub also feels tailormade for the area – a local pub for local people in a positive sense. The feel of the place reflects the community it serves. There are posters for art classes held here, quiz nights too. It’s not just about the beer, that as much as that is clearly important to them it feels like the place is more about fostering a space that gets people out of the house and brings them together. We need these kinds of venues more than ever. 

Generally you’ll find a circle of regulars sat around near the bar, but it is a welcoming group – anyone can join the conversation as it pinballs between such subjects as engineering conundrums, 70s pop music, local roadworks to avoid, and the state of Charlton Athletic Football Club. All your classic pub chat subjects, I think. 

But even in what is a pretty small space there are nooks to hide away in and read a book, or have a smaller conversation. Like all good pubs there is a balance between public and private space. 

The pub has table service and it works perfectly in this context. The wider conversation can flow unabated. The solo drinker doesn’t have to fight their way to the bar and risk losing their spot. But beyond that it helps encourage a much warmer and deeper welcome from staff to customers. Everyone gets greeted as they come in and with each order comes a little chat, a little check that everything is OK. That kind of bond doesn’t just happen in pubs where people line the bar. And, if anything, when done properly, table service enables a significantly more personal and bespoke experience. It doesn’t take long to feel a part of the place, to feel valued, appreciated, understood. To be part of the gang.

Pubs are a pretty personal thing. What works for one person doesn’t work for another, obviously. But feelings around pubs are also bound up in a whole load of emotions and attachments – these are buildings full of memories, places we have come to know intimately, where we know what they are like on a Sunday lunchtime or a Friday night, or when one person is working there compared to another, where we know the individuals who go there but also the kinds of people who go there.

And I think that’s why pubs can be so valuable on a human level. They are a way to tap into those memories, but to also make new ones. A way of feeling like you can be part of a community, to know that people are diverse in background, thought and action, and that spending time with them is no bad thing. Places like the Bird and Barrel aren’t just pubs, they are beacons of hope in a miserable world. A reminder that we still have fun, can enjoy the company of others, that there are places out there that will take care of us for a while.

Monday, a day off and finally some sunshine, so I spent the day working in the garden, doing some good honest manual labour for once. By late afternoon my body was creaking and it was clear I needed a long, cold drink. I headed for the Duke.

The Duke is a funny old place. You have to ring a buzzer and wait to see if they will let you in. There’s a big screen behind the bar where staff can check whether you’re OK or look like you might start trouble, and then choose to ignore you, speak through the intercom, or buzz you in. I guess this kind of thing could give off a cool speakeasy vibe, of being allowed into a secret den, but in reality it all just feels a bit awkward – furtively waiting outside a pub for their judgement on whether you are a suitable patron or not.

I’ve heard this is related to past trouble, or their licensing conditions, or a combination of the two. I don’t know for sure. But I guess if it means a pub has stayed open I can’t be too critical, even if it does spoil things a little. It’s nice to walk into a pub without fanfare.

So, you press the buzzer, then you hear a second buzz – the judgement has been made and you’re allowed in! However, it is at this point that you realise that the door is really stiff. Or maybe the mechanism hasn’t unlocked yet. One last push and, yes, as you are propelled into the bar it turns out the door just is really stiff after all. It is not the most dignified entrance.

But things pick up. The TV is showing an 80s music channel. “Cuddly Toy” by Roachford has just started playing. I get a warm welcome from the barmaid. It is a pleasantly cluttered place, lots of pictures on the walls, various vases and knick-knacks about, bottles of spirits three-deep behind the bar, but all tastefully done. Somewhere that feels cozy without feeling like you are somebody’s nan’s house. The place was done up a few years ago and with the decor and a really nice green tiled bar it is far, far better than the hovel it used to be. This used to be a pub everyone swerved. Now when I walk by on a Friday night it is packed, generally with an older, fairly affluent crowd, by the looks of things.

I take my drink and then face my next challenge. Where to sit? It’s not that it’s busy, far from it, but every table is adorned with a little reserved label. I mill about a bit. The barmaid realises my predicament and reassures me they are just for Bingo Night later on and I’m free to sit where I like. Crisis averted. But with this and the door shenanigans I feel like a real novice.

The place starts to fill up, slowly. A tradesman with a pint and a paper. A man who sits at the bar, gets out his tablet and controller and starts playing computer games with his pint – certainly not what you see in every pub, but seems as good an activity as any. Some women enter and seem to have brought along some Tarot cards. The gentle hub-bub of regulars begins.

A beer rep decked out in company gear comes in after having similar trouble with the whole buzzer/stiff door set-up. It is good to know I’m not alone. I suspect being a beer rep is not the most fun job. Nobody wants to watch a salesman in a pub. He isn’t too pushy, seems more focused on being helpful, and is soon on his way.

I finish my pint and pop across the road for a Chinese takeaway. I don’t want to get caught up in the rush when the bingo starts.