Pub Fiction: The Stars beneath the Sea ...

My favourite pub, The Stars beneath the Sea, sits on a narrow, cobbled street a short ten-minute walk from my home. There are well-worn limestone steps and a cold metal handrail that leads up to a creaky door, and inwards to a brightly lit room with huge gothic-shaped windows on two sides. Dust motes eternally hang in the sunlight, twisting and turning but appearing to never land.

The double height space has a gallery wrapping around all four sides, bisecting the windows on the two sides and a rusty-orange brick wall on the others, it is accessed by a shaky spiral staircase. The walls are covered in rare breweriana and the chairs and tables are all oak or beech, worn smooth by a thousand drinkers. The floor is timber too and looks like it was reclaimed from a ship, as indeed it possibly was.

The bar counter is dark marble, streaked with glittering white threads and cool to the touch - never sticky. The barstools have bottom-shaped but unpadded seats, and the arms wrap around you snugly when you sit, like the embrace of a loved one. There is a hanger for your coat under the countertop and a brass footrest for your feet - well-polished but reassuringly scratched and scuffed in places.

There is a cast iron stove - or two.

The pub serves three well kept beers on cask as well as five on tap - and there is always a stout, a mild or a brown ale available - with a small selection of corked and caged interesting bottled beers. Pints are served - not too cold - in conical glasses, and half-pints in the elegant pilsner shape. Bottles are presented with over-sized Worthington glasses and I am always allowed to uncork and pour my own. Regardless of the choice you make, the bar mat always matches the beer.

The barperson can judge your mood to know if you want the companionship of polite conversation, or to be left alone with your own thoughts, or if you just seek the comfort of a good book. The other patrons of the bar are quiet and respect the sanctity of the surroundings, the talk low just below the not-loud volume of the music, which is jazz and no later than 1970.

The food - served all day, every day - is a selection of pies or sausages, served with a cheesy mash and three types of gravy. There are no crisps, no chocolate, no corn-flavoured snacks, but there are pickled eggs, cubes of anonymous cheese and slices of charcuterie served with white pepper and celery salt. Soft napkins are always supplied, as are tiny metal forks.

There is a cat - or two.

Sturdy French windows lead onto a veranda that hangs precariously over a slow-flowing river, populated with ducks and black swans, and an otter on occasion. There are barges tied up close by and there are tall, repurposed mills, factories and warehouses along the quays opposite, and at just the right time of day their bricks glow golden in the sunlight.

When it gets dark the lights are dimmed and a candle burns on every table, flickering and dancing in time with the music. There are reading lights in certain sections, and a bookcase filled with short story books of every type. Newspapers are also provided and always return neatly and intact to their rack, never a page missing, but occasionally a crossword done.

There is no standing allowed, even at the bar, no one jostles your elbow or leans too close to you. All are welcome and all who enter this sanctum abide by the unwritten rules. There are no arguments, no rumourmongering and no lies being given wings. There is just a sense of calm and contentment, emphasised only by the quarter-hour chimes of the ancient clock that hangs above the bar…

I will have a pint - or two.

Liam K.

(With apologies to George Orwell …)