Devon Knows

Just realised - I forgot to mention that after years of searching, I've finally found a decent pub in Barnstaple. It's the Rolle Quay Inn, a two-minute walk from the northern end of the High Street. It's much bigger than it looks from the outside, and a bit chintzy on the inside - but none the worse for that. We had a couple of first class pints of Proper Job (it's a St Austell house), served up by a friendly and knowledgeable barman, and enjoyed them while we sat defrosting by the pub's fragrant woodburner. It was light years from the usual Barno boozers with their knots of shivering rollup smokers, karaoke, pints of vinegar and two-for-one WKD promotions.





(Didn't have my camera with me when we went to the Rolle Quay - these pics were taken on Westward Ho! beach a day or two earlier)

At Last, At Last

You're probably sick of me banging on about the dire state of beer in Bideford. I know I am. Despite the town being in part of the country studded with micro and regional breweries, it's hard to find a decent pint in the towns and villages on the Torridge Estuary. True to form, I had three miserable pints at the Kingsley, the local in the village near to where my in-laws live. Doom Bar, Bombardier and Exmoor Gold. All as dull as ditchwater, in that annoying condition where you can't quite justify returning them to the bar. The Kingsley is a Cask Marque pub, which only reinforces my opinion that the Marque can't be trusted as a badge of reliability. It was a similar story down the hill at the (un-Marque) Village Inn, Westward Ho. Another grim pint of Doom. Eggy and flat. Could it be that drinkers in Bideford forgotten what a beer in good condition tastes like, and just put up with whatever is served?

It got better, though. On the friday of our visit we had one of those nights which starts with the notion of a couple of brewskys and home for tea, but ends up with a kebab, cab, and a sore head. We were in the White Hart, a 17th century pub on a backstreet off Bideford quay. It's a tiny place that's had it's ups and downs over the years but is now seems to be back on form. The pumps usually have a couple of the local (and unexciting) Jollyboat ales and a guest, which on our visit was Hartland Forge IPA. It was without doubt the best pint I've supped in twenty years of visiting. Prime condition, fresh and bitingly hoppy - everything an IPA should be. Haven't been that surprised since I saw Bill Clinton sat in a pub in Covent Garden. So that was that, from 5 until closing. Sadly, Dexter, the ancient collie that used to loll about in front of the fire like an animated rug has passed away since our last visit. One of the Jollyboat pumps was dedicated as a memorial. Cheers, Dex.

Inconstant Craving

I'm getting bored with trying to find a consistently good pub in Barnstaple or Bideford. I've been visiting what are now my in-laws for the best part of 20 years. I still haven't found what I'm looking for, though I'll probably keep searching. I've even brought my down old Specialized Hardrock (above, on Westward Ho beach last week) so In the future I can explore the more remote pubs.

Take Appledore. Being custodian of a pub in this Georgian fishing village could be like owning a cow that craps solid gold. As well as the 'real' Devonians - amongst the friendliest people anywhere - the place is full of affluent second-homers with kids called Georgie and Arabella, and well-heeled couples, families and groups who descend on the place at Easter and in summer. Whoever they are, they're all after a good pub experience, but they'll be lucky to find it here. We were in the Coach and Horses last saturday afternoon - for as long as it took to swallow one drink. The other punters were an over-familar, swaying drunk ("You a photographer? Take a picture of me cock then! Harharharharhar"), his visibly embarrassed mates and a group of loud and sweary footy fans in the back room who sounded as if they were outside seven or eight pints at two in the afternoon. We counted no fewer than three groups of potential customers who came in, surveyed the scene and turned on their heels. In the current climate, that's a lot of lost money.

Next door at the Royal. Half empty, no real ale and the interior completely dominated by two lads who'd been there several hours, and effin' at the top of their voices. More visitors came and went instantly. More lost trade. I'm not being pious here - i'll drink with anyone, even someone with a pottymouth if they keep the volume down. But I might not enjoy it if i'd popped in for cod and chips and a quiet pint with an elderly aunt on Easter Weekend.

Round the corner, The Champion Of Wales - now called 'The Champ' - was empty. They're making an effort here - the new licencees have spruced up what was a distinctly rough and ready place with big comfy sofas and a real fire. The Doom Bar was in reasonable if not brilliant nick, but the Tetley Green Shoots was a pint of opaque, stinky, vinegar. It was changed with no drama, but shouldn't even have made it out of the pump - they could probably smell it in the chip shop next door.

I haven't drunk in the Royal George for a couple of years because the service was so indifferent, the beer so joyless and the punters so cliquey that it made a visit to this handsome old place an utter chore. I probably should give it another chance. Thank God, then, for the village's only decent pub - and probably the best pub in the area, the Beaver. It doesn't have much in the way of old, organic character, but the service is great, the beer (in general) the best I've had in the town and get this - packed. I haven't seen a pub so busy for years. Three deep at the bar, pints passed over heads back to your table.

Any ale fan visiting won't be surprised to find that Bideford town itself hasn't got a single pub in the Good Beer Guide. The pint of vinegar was an historic low, but drinking round here you get used to beer past its best and pints with a faint but distinct whiff of eggs. It also proves my theory that the Cask Marque can be safely ignored as a symbol of quality. The Kings Arms in Bideford has the marque and is as inconsistent as it gets, though to be fair it has served up the odd cracking pint. The tiny and friendly White Hart up the quay is another decent place where an effort is being made. It's run by two ladies of a certain age and their elderly collie, Dexter*. It's a great community pub. I always enjoy a visit here, even if I only have a couple of pints of Jollyboat's distinctly utilitarian brews. When I was in on friday, their pint of the Otter Brewery's imaginatively named Ale was great - but as with all the other pubs in the area that I've tried, a good pint can't always be guaranteed.

If I lived here full time I might start to see that Cooking Lager definitely has a point.

* This is the old lad. His beermat-catching days are way behind him, but he still likes the odd crisp. I've also seen him visibly offended when one drinker remarked that he looked like 'a man in a pantomine dog suit'.

The Crow Road

Near Barnstaple in North Devon are the Braunton Burrows, the largest sand dune system in the British Isles, and a UNESCO biosphere reserve. It's a huge, wind-washed tract of marram grass, dandelions and purple thyme where it's easy to get lost among the sandy hills and gorse and swooping, trilling skylarks. In 1943 this area was selected by Lieutenant Colonel Paul Thompson of the US Army as a training area for the planned allied assault on Normandy. What became know as the US Assault Training Centre was temporary home to thousands of young Americans, living under canvas, in Nissen huts and billeted in nearby villages. The bumpy track from the Burrows car park is still known locally as the American Road and leads to an open area of grass and dunes where this dummy landing craft still stands.  There are four or five others - some with wartime graffiti - which are slowly being reclaimed by nature. These concrete replicas of 'Higgins Boats' were used by troops to rehearse what they'd be doing in deadly, bloody earnest on Omaha and Utah beaches 65 years ago, almost to the day.

Metalheads

I started college just when the Apple Macintosh was coming in as a viable tool for the print industry. A typical day's study would have us getting familiar with the astonishing Mac II in the morning, and then handsetting metal type or gloriously tactile woodface in the afternoon. I've spent the last 20 years using Macs, but In a post-computer wasteland I could still set a galley and lock it into a Heidelberg 'windmill' platen, should the need arise.

Other than craft printers like the almighty Alan Kitching, it's rare to see any sort of new analogue printing. Two of the last places to use woodface and moveable metal type were circus posters and, somewhat bizarrely, the signs for polling stations put up at election time. Recent sightings confirm that both of these have now entered the digital age.

Supping a pint of Cousin Jack on my last visit to Appledore's Coach And Horses, my eye was drawn to Bideford rugby club's fixture poster. To my delight I noticed that it was all set in metal - and at the top there in red - a woodface.

The advert up the side for Apex brought back memories of my first proper job. As a stopgap between further and higher education I worked as a 'finished artist' at a family owned printers in Bradford. Because I could draw, I often had to knock up just this type of illustration. My artwork would be made into letterpress plates and printed on Victorian machines in the basement. It was a dismal place to work. I stuck it out for 18 months before I announced that I was off back to college. The boss sacked me on the spot and he could have justifiably booted me out of the door, but he wished me well and gave me the equivalent of a week's wages from his own pocket.

It's still the worst job I've ever had. The reasons are very many, but one is the time the boss's son came in and told us we couldn't have an expected (and much needed) pay rise because he'd bought himself, his wife and his daughters new cars instead. Sorry, lads.

Behind The Green Door

Every town has a pub that nobody seems to visit. Nobody is ever seen entering or leaving. Nobody knows anyone who's ever been in. The Lamb is Bideford's example. For the twenty-odd years I've been visiting Devon, I've wanted to visit this pub. It's in the middle of a row of Victorian terraces above the Pannier Market, an example of the fast-vanishing simple backstreet boozer. When we were down over Easter, I got my chance. On my way up Honestone Street I noticed that the faded Whitbread sign has aquired a new neighbour since I last walked past - Beck's Vier, so at least it was still trading. Bideford's pubs are in the main disappointing, as I have lamented here before. Maybe The Lamb was an undiscovered gem? The beery equivalent of finding a Shakespeare Folio on an Oxfam shelf stuffed with Jeffrey Archer?

Gingerly pushing open the door I was met with a tired 80s refit and keg beers - was one of them really Trophy Bitter? The locals round the bar were a friendly bunch, discussing darts and horse racing rather than the dead-eyed hermits I half expected. I glumly perched on a buffet and supped my freezing cold Becks before heading back to The Kings. Oh well. Nice window, though.

Folk Law

The people of North Devon are an independent lot. It's not exactly The Wickerman out there, but if they run into a problem they like to fix it in their own way. I was once on a bus that was trundling down a narrow lane. We encountered a Lexus who for reasons only known to its beachball-faced driver refused to obey local convention and back up to a passing place just behind him. Our driver jumped out to have a word, but being ostentaciously blanked by this fool, got back in his cab to ponder his options. And there we might have sat for the rest of the day - if a farmer hadn't appeared on a quad bike, complete with dog on the back. The farmer had a short chat with our driver and trotted up to Lexus Man - who was by now standing in the lane with his arms folded, still grinning smugly, and wearing sunglasses despite it being almost dark. After a brief but animated chat the farmer punched him squarely on the jaw. Lexus Man picked himself up and hurriedly reversed back to allow a bus full of cheering and jeering passengers on their way.



Most of the pubs (and quite a few houses) in Bideford have distinctive floor tiles, like here at the Kings Arms. These came from an Italian ship which ran aground on The Bar - the notorious reef at the mouth of the Torridge Estuary. In order to be refloated the ship had to have its cargo temporarily brought ashore. Not all the tiles she was carrying made it back to the ship - whether this was legitimate or not depends on who you ask - but it was good news for the publicans of the town who never need to buy a carpet again.