There's something about the time spent drinking beer in pubs that brings out the best in good writers. George Orwell's wishlist in his 'The Moon Under Water' from 1946 is possibly the most famous - and there have been other pieces of writing previous to that work and many since. And it's an ongoing writing theme of course, with new 'odes' to pubs and the beer they serve appearing in social media, books, and other published pieces on a monthly basis, if not more frequently. But there is something quite nostalgic, whimsical and utopian about those older pub-related pieces from the more distant past. They can evoke in some of us more emotions and yearnings than the writing of today, or even from the memories our own early drinking exploits regardless of that era. That wistfulness probably stems from something imagined trumping something experienced in one part of our brain and the idea that the past was somehow better than the present. It wasn't of course, on most counts at least, but that doesn't stop our heads from creating a sentimental picture of some idyllic pub based on the descriptions of a long-dead writer, and from tasting the beer they drank - in our heads at least.
And I'm as guilty as anyone of this sort of foolishness.
-o-
While trawling through newspaper mentions for old pubs for yet another historical project, I came across a smattering of repeats in numerous papers in 1908 of a piece of pubcentric prose under the title, 'The Delights of an Old Alehouse.' It really gripped me as I read it and brought out some of the emotions mentioned above, but it wasn't in any way familiar to me which seemed odd, as it was extremely well written and clearly done by someone with a lot of talent. Luckily, at the end of the piece the author - Charles Hugh Davies - was credited as well as the source of the original publication, which was The Pall Mall Magazine. Some sleuthing and searching finally led me to the piece, which is actually just a small part of an article titled 'An Essaie in Prayse of Beer' which is a much broader love letter to beer, and especially old ale, as was hinted at in the excerpt I had read. I can't find it in any other source (apologies if it has been covered by others and I've just missed it.)
For me, the whole essay is a pure joy, both in style and content. The part I quoted at the very start was particularly resonant, as I have a particular interest in Old Ales - and Milds for that matter - and it also takes me exactly an hour to drink a pint in a pub, which has always seemed the right amount of time to spend on a pleasant beer by my estimation, so it was good to have my opinion reinforced by another drinker, even at the remove of over a century. Although, I'm not sure many present-day publicans would agree with Charles and my drinking pace in their pubs!
That original passage that I found in the newspapers and caught my attention I've transcribed here, and it includes some small details that were left out when published in those papers. Again the first line here sang strongly at me, as late afternoon is my favourite time to visit a pub and drink a beer or two.
Yet, to my mind, pleasantest of all is that great draught of Old Ale which may be drunk ’twixt half after three and five of a winter’s afternoon. Let a man go forth on foot with his dog and a stout stick, and let him walk some five brisk miles along a frosty road. Up hill and down he goes, 'twixt leafless hedgerows; his stick rings on the hard ground, his dog runs busily before. Now, it may be, he follows a lonely field path, and now tramps gaily down a village street. At last, as dusk falls, he sees a pleasant inn before him, back from the road a little way, with a great pole and signboard before - the Checquers[sic], or the Three Gold Cups. Firelight shines warm from the windows, and in he goes to a fair kitchen, where a leaping log-fire dances up the great chimney. Round the walls run benches, and at the fireside is a high-backed settle. Before the blaze hang spit and jack, and on the mantel stand brass candlesticks in a winking row. The rafters are black with smoke, and on the wall hangs a copper warming-pan. Down he sits in the settle, and his dog comes to him and lays his muzzle on his knee. Then, "A pint of Old, please. and a penn’orth of biscuits for the dog." The dog knows what is coming, and stands in the firelight watching the stout dame as she goes to draw the ale. His master draws from his pocket a blackened briar, with a well-knawed[sic] mouthpiece, and a black pouch. Slowly he fills his pipe and waits till the dame comes back with beer and biscuits. He lifts the willow-pattern mug - the best for warm and genial Old - and takes a draught, raising the pot, it may be, for a silent toast. Then he puts down his ale on the deal table at his elbow, breaks a biscuit, and throws a piece to the dog, who catches it before it touches the floor. Then, and then only, he lights his pipe, and so sits smoking, throwing biscuit to the dog; and taking slow draughts of the divine thing.
Perhaps the dame comes and sits at the other side of the chimney, or a labourer comes in from the fields. Then there is beer for the labourer, half of Old and half of Bitter, and talk of ratting and high politics. Then the biscuits are done, and the dog lies down before the blaze on the sanded floor. Half the ale is drunk, and the pipe is at its best. The Votary looks into his mug before he drinks, and admires the deep, rich hue. garnets and ebony in a crucible. He falls under the spell, he is a philosopher at the centre of ideas, the Idea of the Good. His thoughts glide down the emanating rays, and he sees clearly how good things are tobacco and fire and life. . . . His pipe is finished, but there’s more beer in the pot, and he lights up again. The dog is growling in his sleep, and the old labourer is looking into the fire with a wise air, though he is really thinking about turnips. Three-quarters of an hour are gone, and it is quite dark outside. The dame lights the lamp, and the man rouses himself with a jerk, drinks off his ale, looks into the fire, then up and out he goes into the frosty evening. If he were a fool he would stay and try to prolong the pleasure with another pint. But he is not a fool - no Beer-Lover is - and he knows - is it by experience? - that the best is done. So he whistles to his dog, and out they go into the starlight with a "good night" from the man and a volley of barks from the dog. Old Ale, Old Ale, thou are a great and generous creature!
I found this wonderfully descriptive and well written and to my mind it deserves to be well known, perhaps just as well as Orwell's piece even if it is somewhat different in style and content. It certainly puts a longing on me to visit such a place, and although I'm very glad we now have smoke-free pubs even the pipe mentions here sound pleasant and acceptable - as are dogs of course.
You might look at the nice illustration above by Herbert Cole that accompanied the essay in The Pall Mall magazine and think that it doesn't really match that piece of prose, and you would be right, as there is another pub related part contained in the full article that matches the image. It shows another side of pub life and interaction but is equally well written and descriptive.
But now he has had enough of solitude, so by eight he and his dog are tramping down the road to the village, moon overhead and snow under foot. Half a mile in ten minutes and they come to the Running Horses. A cheery hum streams out with the light from the uncurtained window, and grows suddenly louder as he pushes open the door, Then to the right, and he is standing in a haze of blue smoke before a glorious fire of peat and logs. All the places near the blaze are taken, but a young labourer gets up to make room for the gentleman. A fool would decline the offer; the Beer-Lover is not a fool, and he sits down in the empty place. They would none of them think the better of him if he did not, and half a pint will more than repay young Thomas. Conversation drops for a minute while two or three elders make polite remarks and the gentleman’s dog makes the acquaintance of that surly looking sheep-dog who has come out from under the settle. The sheep-dog’s owner speaks to him with no uncertain voice, and the dogs agree to tolerate each other, one at either end of the hearth. 'Then it is a pint of - the Votary hesitates, Mild or Old? Well, perhaps Old is a little drowsy for company; better make it Mild. The landlord, fat and rosy, makes it Mild. And half of Burton for young Thomas. So the beer comes—in pewters this time, the briar is lit, and the Votary leans back and looks around him. On the settle sit the landlord and two elders, and there are two more in Windsor chairs before the fire. He himself has a chair at the corner, with the mantel on his right. His dog is at his feet. This is the inner circle. Outside this are four or five others, younger men, two of them playing dominoes, while the landlord’s pretty daughter looks on and advises about the moves. Conversation resumes its course among the elders; one of the younger men sometimes makes a remark, but not often. They are talking about the old squire, the present Llanharan’s father. The landlord and another stand up for him, the others are recalling his iniquities. It all happened thirty years ago, so that they can talk scandal without slander. The stranger joins in now and then - not often, as most of the talk is in Welsh. He pulls at his mild ale and smokes. He has reached his third pint, and begins
"To look into the pewter pot,And see the world as the world's not."In the translucent red glory silence melts, and he talks more freely. Yes, his grandfather was old Dafi Llanfihangel, of the next parish. Oh yes, his father was the one that went to England to make his fortune. Did he make it? Well, no. Here comes a protesting chorus from the elders, and they are soon all deep in affairs of the ’50. Yes, yes, his father often talked of Wil Gat. Not dead yet? Well, Well! . . . What, ten o’clock already, all but five minutes? Well, it’s jolly to talk to people who know Wil Gat. "Good-night !" and "Good-night, sir!" from the elders. Then back through the snow, the dog snuffing the keen air, and barking furiously at every sound. And so to bed.
-o-
Charles Hugh Davies was born in 1887, so he wrote those words when he was just 21 years of age, but to my mind it reads as something written by someone much, much older, He was the eldest son of Thomas Davidson Davies and Elinor Lucy Thomas who lived in Bristol. His father was a maths professor whose family originally came from Wales which will explain the content of his second pub visit in his piece. Charles studied Classics in Magdalen College in Oxford, writing the above while still attending there. He worked in Burma (Myanmar) with the Indian Civil Service after leaving college, and joined the war after returning to England in 1915.
He was killed in action on the 17th of January 1916 when a piece of bomb shrapnel pierced the tent where he was sleeping and struck him on the head. He was just 28 years old.
Although he appears not to have done much writing after college I can't help but think that if he had survived the war he might have returned to writing, something he clearly had a talent for, and a piece like this would now be better known as some of his 'early work.' I have chosen just two sections from his essay on beer to highlight here, as both are pub-based and evocative, but the full piece of writing is linked below and deserves a full read to pull those visits into the broader context of his essay to beer - and there is quite a lot to take in.
If you want to read more about Charles and his life - and you should - there is more on Magdalen College's Slow Dusk website where I got the information for the short biography above. I also chose to show you all a photo of Charles from the same source; in memory of him and his rediscovered work.
So here he is, with his beautiful biscuit-loving dog ...
Liam
The full text of Charles' article can be found on the Internet Archive website here.
Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its source, and a link back to this post. Research was via The Internet Archive, The British Newspaper Archive, and the Slow Dusk website linked - all online. The illustration is from The Pall Mall Magazine on the Internet Archive site and the photo of Charles Hugh Davies is from the Magdalen College archives and not my own. It is used here for educational, non-profit reasons, and in memory of him. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!
