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No 19 - The Soul Inside

  • bluecity86
  • Jun 5
  • 6 min read

Thinking of one of the other officers in the Italian camp in which they were prisoners of war, novelist Dan Billany wrote: 


"He is strictly teetotal, and this is perhaps his one admission of weakness - he may be afraid, once alcohol unlocked his soul, what would come out.”  (The Cage, Longmans,1949)


That’s a very apt way of looking at it because alcohol can, for better or worse, let the dog out of the shed. It might affectionately slobber all over you, it might even be savage - but come what may, the true, unedited soul of the drinker will emerge. Many of us will have said or done things we’d rather not have after having one too many. We dwell on these unfortunate incidences, forgetting those beneficial times when our tongues have been loosened enough to share our fears and worries, more easily than we could express them to any therapist. Alcohol can prove a loyal servant, as long as it is prevented from ever becoming the master.


A solitary pint in the Coach and Horses, Greek Street, Soho, where it is forever the 1960's.
A solitary pint in the Coach and Horses, Greek Street, Soho, where it is forever the 1960's.

Personally, I am never happier than when I’m drinking in a nice old London boozer with a small group of friends, occasionally drawing in the odd stranger. We have the same conversations we’ve had before and will doubtless have again - but I believe it is generally accepted nowadays that recycling is a good thing. On such evenings we might collectively arrive at the solutions to all the world’s problems - but sadly we will not be able to recall them the next day, and won't make the world a better place.


While I prefer a nice pint to a rotten one, the pub has always been of greater importance to me than the beer. I cherish a genuinely ancient house because it pleases me to feel that I am enjoying the type of hospitality that has been offered for generations, over decades, and in some cases centuries. People come and go, but the topics of conversation remain broadly the same - work, love, fears, art, literature, film, politics, religion, sport, humour and after one too many, some lascivious observations. 


The entrance to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Wine Office Court, off Fleet Street.
The entrance to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Wine Office Court, off Fleet Street.

Atmosphere

The Gentleman’s Bar at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street has changed very little since the pub reopened in 1667, having been rebuilt after the Great Fire. The house retains a series of visitors’ books bearing the signatures of some notable people: Herbert Asquith, Joseph Chamberlain, Sir Edward Grey, Lord Rosebery, GK Chesterton, Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, Max Beerbohm, and Theodore Roosevelt stood out for me. In Georgian times, Doctor Johnson, who lived nearby and Oliver Goldsmith were regulars - as was Charles Dickens some years later. All of this I gleaned from the sixth edition of Thomas Wilson Reade’s book about the pub, first published in 1908.


The Cheese’s antiquity attracts tourists of course, but it remains atmospheric, and the Gentleman’s Bar in particular is laid out in such a way that is conducive to conversing with strangers. I’ve shared many a pint in there with people I’d never met before and haven’t since, more often in this room than in any other pub. As I’m usually dressed for 1925, I seldom have to be the one to start a conversation.


My 1913 edition of Thomas Wilson Reade’s book.
My 1913 edition of Thomas Wilson Reade’s book.

I was chatting to some Australian pilots in there one afternoon when a girl with a clipboard bounced in and told us that we would all have to leave, because the Gentleman’s Bar had been booked from the top of the hour. We were assured that we were welcome to move elsewhere in the pub. The upstairs rooms were closed, so ‘elsewhere’ would have meant rooms that were once vaults or cellars, but never traditionally a drinking part of the historic tavern, and therefore wanting for atmosphere. Outside, leaning against the railings stood a line of people, every one in tee-shirt and cargo shorts, carrying a back-pack and a bottle of water. They would be shown in and given the briefest history, before each buying a half of lager or a soft drink and taking a few ‘selfies’. Then they’d tick it off their list and hurry off to the next ‘sight’ on their itinerary. I’m imagining their verdict on the 17th Century pub…


“OMG we went to this like, really old bar and it was like, I dunno, a thousand years old or something which was amaaaazing - but they didn’t even play any music so it was kinda lame too.” 


Any authentic atmosphere will have been shown the door along with the evicted patrons and for the duration of the visit, it will have been a room in a museum - a dead thing. The fireplace, the ancient furniture, the brass and the glass - all are nothing without the bona fide pub-goers. Some of these too will have been attracted by the history, and may even have been tourists, but when they settle in to indulge in drink and conversation, as people have done in that room for 358 years, then all is as it should be. 


I admit that this unfortunate scenario has unfolded before me only once. Perhaps the pub manager came to appreciate that a handful of proper pub goers takes up less space, and spends more money than a twenty-five strong group of tourists. 


I am fortunate to live in a city that has more traditional old pubs than any other. While each year I share the dismay over how many of them have closed their doors for the last time, for me personally it is probably just as well. As it is, I have a daunting number yet to visit and I like to revisit the many I love.


The Grapes, Narrow Street, Limehouse. The round table in the window was mine for four pints.
The Grapes, Narrow Street, Limehouse. The round table in the window was mine for four pints.

Ghosts

When I was struggling for a name for my blog, I should have known that given time, the right place and some beer, it would come to me.


In Limehouse, following a visit to the London Museum (Docklands), I went to The Grapes (1720), a narrow pub with galleries overlooking the river. There are other claims, but it is considered the tavern most likely to have inspired the ‘Six Jolly Fellowship Porters’ in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend. It is now part-owned by the actor Sir Ian McKellen and Gandalf’s staff, as used in one of the films based on Tolkien's The Hobbit, is bracketed to the wall behind the main bar.


I sat alone at a table in this old pub beside the river, listening to the pleasing rumble of conversation. There had been some wine-quaffing middle-aged men nearby, loudly broadcasting their opinions on just about everything between mouthfuls of fish and chips, but mercifully they’d gone. So had the American tourists who had interrogated the bar manager for advice on the quickest route to Shakespeare’s Globe. They returned for a moment to ask “How do we pay on the boat?” She replied, “In this country we have this stuff you can use for that - we call it ‘money’.” She said it with a smile, for she knew that in this post-pandemic world it was a valid question. 


The American tourists glanced at me on the way out, perhaps thinking me a sad figure sitting alone at a table like that. But I was grateful that rather than having a fortnight to ‘do London' as they had, I have had forty years, with hopefully more to come. It is wonderful to live in one's 'holiday destination of choice'.


While I would prefer to drink with my handful of favourite drinking mates, I often enjoy my own company. I am quite happy sitting alone with a pint, with eyes to see, ears with which to listen, and an imagination that tends to be inspired by the combination of beer and history. I can often be as intoxicated by the history as the beer. Sometimes, 'happy' becomes 'ecstatic' as I notice some overlooked stained glass window, take a good photograph, or when aspects of a plot suddenly click into place and the characters born in my head begin to make their own suggestions as if they had once lived. And there was my blog title.


Even when I appear to be alone, I am not. I never drink alone, I drink with ghosts.


NB: 'Ye Olde' is pronounced 'The Old' rather than 'Yee Oldy'. The 'Y' is not a Y but an Old English thorn. The 'E' at the end of 'Olde' is silent.





 
 
 

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