London - A Small Cask Snapshot

I was in London last week for a few days and decided on a whim to have one entire day - or thereabouts - just drinking cask. "Unwise" I hear you say and of course I can see why, but arriving at a somewhat gloomy and rainy Euston and just as gloomy Aldgate, somehow pints of lager didn't appeal.

As usual, we inspected the flat and having confirmed all is well, E ritually dealt with a predictable pile of post, which nowadays is almost entirely junk and then, being creatures of habit, even though this habit is separated by weeks not days or hours, we made tracks, as we always do for the Aldate Tap. 

The Aldgate Tap is very much a pub of the City. Usually in the summer, hordes of people dressed in that smart casual way of work nowadays, haunt the outside area, leaving the interior pretty free for those of us who like to sit inside and people watch.  Harder to do that last Thursday though, not only had that aforementioned pesky and somewhat wintry rain driven many inside, but much of the pub - bar really - had been cordoned off for a corporate Christmas do. Bank of America, I think. And no, I couldn't find out their tab number, but there was a sprinkling of Christmas jumpers and rather a few who didn't seem that familiar with pubs.

Nonetheless, John, the Manager greeted us warmly and we quickly, being veterans in every sense, spotted a group leaving a small table and a swift wriggle later, we were seated. John recommended the Kent Brewery Goldings Bitter. It was pretty good by the third pint and unmistakeably Southermn in style. You can usually tell. It needed drinking through to "fresh from the cask", but it was a good start as we watched the amateur drinkers, unsure of what to do with empty glasses, lay them lengthwise inside each other on the floor behind tables. (I took them back to the bar before someone trod on them.) Still, it was jolly enough and the beer was under a fiver!

Next day, after lunch in Charlotte Street, we called into the next door Fitzroy Tavern. One of Sam Smith's empire, this excellent and expensively refurbished historical boozer was, sadly, almost completely empty on a Friday around half past two. Six of your British pounds for Old Brewery Bitter. It wasn't bad, but it too needed more throughput, and my pint was clearly in the lines for a bit. I'd still recommend the pub, but even by London standards, they are pushing it a bit on price, the bottles, particularly, are eye wateringly expensive. Not all Sam's pubs in London are as nice as this one, and price may be a factor in emptiness. If you pay top dollar, you want something decent from it. An empty Sam's pub offers little in terms of atmosphere. Top spotters tip?  In a Sam Smith's pub, the house whisky is still labelled "Rochdale and Manor Brewery".

Moving on, through Soho and various Christmas lights, we ended up in the Strand.  I've always liked the Coal Hole and we nipped in. Touristy maybe, but it is a proper pub.  It was rammed, but again after a few minutes we got a table to perch at. In the meantime, I'd admonished the barman for trying to slop me with the half filled glass under the tap trick. The dodgy one being switched for the clean one he'd made sure I'd seen in his other hand. Not so fast, Matey. I was doing that to keg customers 50 years ago. A fresh pint of Titanic Plum Porter was so good, I had another. He didn't try the same trick twice. Top tip. Always watch the pour a little from the side of the pumps in tourist traps. You'll spot it and call it out easier if they try something on. 

And then, another Sam's. The Lyceum is an old haunt too, and the beer there was fine in that Old Brewery Bitter sort of way. Worth six quid? No, but a busy pub which could maybe do with an upgrade.

We caught the 15 bus home and went for a last beer in the Sir Sydney Smith in Dock St. Now this is a lovely pub near our flat. A former Truman's house, it has been sensitively refurbished - it used to look as though you could film Goodnight Sweetheart without changing a thing.  It was busy, and I knew trouble was afoot when the server put my glass under the handpump and splashed beer into it while pouring a half of lager. It was the worst pint of Vocation Bread and Butter I'd ever had, but I supped it quietly and left most of it. I hadn't the heart to pull this hard-working lass up about it. Someone should have trained her better.

At our table we started talking with a couple of lads who'd lived locally for a few years, They too had started on cask and abandoned it so we enjoyed Hofmeister instead and swapped tales about the area. We even exchanged details and promised to meet again.

So, while the pub didn't deliver on cask, it did on being a nice place to be in and for atmosphere and friendliness. Overall, the London cask bag was mixed, but on the whole, it could probably do better. 

A bottle of Organic Cider or Perry is the equivalent of £11.84 a pint. Eek.  The rest of their prices are pretty dodgy too, but the did have Dark Mild at £4. Click on image to see details.

I didn't repeat the experiment the  next day, but boy is London getting expensive. £7.80 a pint for Camden Hells in an ordinary Farringdon pub?

They Have Sam's in London too You Know

No doubt, my many readers are wondering whatever happened to my series of visits to Sam Smiths pubs.  In fact, I often wonder myself why I have not returned to this rich seam of pub culture and idiosyncrasy. Perhaps I have a small lingering doubt about Humphrey himself reading how the denizens of his establishments really conduct themselves, as opposed to how he wishes they would. It is also true to say that I have some slight concerns about how he may treat landlords and landladies, who, perhaps, in his distorted vision, would appear by my words to have somehow failed to live up to his expectations. On that point it is worth mentioning that in every Sam’s house I have visited, the managers have singularly, and with good humour, tried their best to honour Mr Smiths instructions, however odd they may be.

Of course, knowing myself, it may be that I just have been as usual far too lazy to get out and about and actually visit the 20 or so Sam’s pubs that are still open in my area. That number is of course an approximation, given that Humph has already closed more than one of the pups already visited and reported on – no doubt for some minor infraction of his somewhat arbitrary rules. But as always, I live in hope that one day, all 32 pubs in my Rochdale, Oldham and Bury area may all be open, and that some may actually sell Old Brewery Bitter in cask conditioned form.

But I digress from my original purpose. A couple of weeks ago, when in London checking that Tandleman Towers South still exists, we ventured into Soho with the intention of having a look at how some of the London Sam’s pubs operate. While it has never been officially confirmed, it is known that Humphrey's son Sam is the supremo of all the Southern operations. Things are done differently there, and while recently in the North, innovations such as paying by phone and card have been accepted, it is true to say that no such restrictions have operated in London for quite some time.The reasons for this are pretty obvious when you look at the clientele. I think it's fair to say that in the absence of paying by card or phone Mr. Smith would find insufficient customers willing to pay by cash, as payment by such is, in London, the exception rather than the rule.

Also missing from most of the London pubs is the plethora of notices forbidding this, that or the other, though it is fair to say that the one prohibiting electronic devices is generally clear and present, but,  particularly in the case of phones, is blatantly and wholly disregarded.

Our first port of call was the White Horse in Rupert St, more or less opposite the John Gielgud Theatre. It can best be described as a basic corner street local set out in typical Sam Smith dark wood, bare floorboards and a slight down at heel appearance. Old Brewery Bitter in cask format was available at £5.70 a pint, and was somewhat middle of the road in taste. E’s Pure Brewed Organic lager was an astonishing £6.90 a pint.  It is as well at this point to mention that Sam Smiths pubs in London are pretty expensive. Banish any thoughts of the cheap pint they used to be, and given the somewhat basic nature of some of the pubs visited, could be regarded as less than value for money.  The pub wasn't busy, but a steady stream of people wandered in, vaguely looked round and then blatantly zoomed downstairs to use the loos before re-emerging, pretending to consider drinks at the bar, before darting out the door.  At the bar more than one person sipped their pint while surfing their phone. The landlord, an Al Murray lookalike was clearly used to such behaviour and simply ignored all this while occasionally tilting his eyes in our direction.

Now, Sam's pubs are usually pretty good for people watching, but not in this case. The only real entertainment was a young couple, the male of which would occasionally lean in for a kiss, while the female would carefully move away. Fair dos, it didn't discourage him, and she happily allowed him to hold her waist. Likely she wasn’t keen on public affection, which is just fine. In fact, we bumped into them in a later pub and they seemed quite cosy. So, all was well.

Leaving this mayhem we walked a few steps to the Duke of Argyll, another Sam's pub but this time absolutely rammed.  This was a step-up in class. Multi partitioned, with each area jammed with customers, the lone bar person zoomed up and down at breakneck speed trying to keep up with demand. It took us quite some time to get served, and my pint of stout looked more like Coca-Cola. Clearly the nitrogen gas had gone, and subsequently the beer was poured as flat as could be. There was no opportunity to earhole the frantic barman, and frankly the poor bugger was doing the best he could. At last, when he had a second, I explained the problem with the pint and he offered an exchange. He took the opportunity in the meantime to call someone on his phone, who a few moments later emerged from upstairs to lend a hand. I suppose that was technically a breach of the rules too.

We struck up conversation with a guy who'd come up from Kent for the day. He turned out to be an ex-RAF type and we passed an agreeable half hour with him telling tales of avoiding customs duties from various tours of overseas duty - a subject E knew a bit about somewhat oddly - while we dodged around, juggling our pints, to let people in at the bar. Frankly, it wasn’t a comfortable experience, though I’d like to go back when it was less busy.

Our final stop, nearby, was the Glasshouse Stores. We have been there before and remembered it just as it was. Long, thin, narrow and very busy. It was there that we bumped into the young lovers again, though I doubt very much if they noticed us at all. The pub was full of all types, but nothing of any great interest to the nosey parker. It was simply a Sam's pub with a typical London mix of people and tourists. The beer list was straightforward Sam's – I think the OBB was keg -  but this time my pint of stout was thick with a creamy head, though well north of £6 a pint. From our vantage point in the centre of the pub (fortunately we were able to nab a seat) we observed none of the usual Sam's forbidding notices. We left after one drink.

So, to sum up, in Sam’s pubs in Rochdale and areas you are likely to find the pubs are locals with a loyalty to the pub. In London Sam's pubs are just another convenient location to drink beer, have a glass of wine or whatever, while visiting a popular area. Of course, this is just a snapshot of three pubs, but having visited many, while some are more interesting than others, none have the idiosyncrasies and character you will find further away from the city. It is clear that's in business terms Sam Smiths offer a similar experience to other pubs. There is no price advantage, the pubs themselves vary from quirky and old-fashioned, to just played old-fashioned and a bit dowdy.

When compared to Humphrey’s ridiculous strictures in the North, it seems somewhat bizarre that in the same company, two different schools of thought apply to the way the pubs are run, with sometimes devastating results for pub regulars and managers alike. But that Sam’s for you.

On a previous, but recent London visit we went to the rather good Crown by the British Museum (no cask). There were some more obvious notices there about electronic devices, but again, completely ignored by the punters. 

I wonder if Sam's have got themselves ahead of the game pricewise and will refrain for quite a while? E who has scant regard to prices  is switching to Taddy lager when in Sam's pubs for the foreseeable.  Well, in London anyway.

 

 

A Quick Thought on Sam's

There has been a lot written recently, and in the near past, about Sam Smiths, or more particularly Humphrey Smith.  Most of this stuff is speculative, as of course Humph, like the royal family, never apologises and never explains.  That doesn't help his case at all, though, as apart from being nearly as rich as the Windsors - the Smiths own a lot of land in Yorkshire and elsewhere - as well as an empire of up to 350 pubs throughout the UK, almost all being freehold. In fact, the number may be more, as I don't believe that anyone in the public domain actually knows the total

But all is not well. I was told, recently, that no fewer than 120 Sam Smith's pubs are closed through lack of people to run them. (You can often find them listed in trade adverts for managers) This is an astonishing number given that all of them are managed houses, and while they attract a smallish salary, not much above minimum wage, but they do have heating, lighting and rent thrown in on top.  This is not an entirely unattractive package in these dodgy times, so why is there a problem in finding the right people to run them? More of that soon.

Let's take a look at what else we know.  Sams' pubs - themselves largely unbranded - sell nothing that isn't made or commissioned by them. All beers, wines and spirits, crisps, nuts and pork scratchings, as well as soft drinks are Smith brand, even if the names are made up by them, or, as in the case of Walker and Scott spirits, owned by them. These and Scintilla Soft drinks are high quality products. Quality of product is rarely an issue with the brewery, and the lack of brands is something that could actually be admired from one point of view.  Make, not buy, still has some adherents.

Sams also brew an astonishing range of mostly keg beers - the sole cask beer being Old Brewery Bitter - and to continue with the idiosyncrasy - this is sold only in wooden casks, with strict turnover criteria deciding whether it can be obtained by a particular pub. Until recently the draught beers were sold at a very cheap price, but this has changed, though price increases elsewhere may well return Sams to its previous pole position.  As an aside, its range of bottled beers has always commanded a premium in the pubs. There is a long-standing and large export trade in bottles, mainly to the US.

The Smith empire is essentially split in two, with the Southern part - maybe it is just London - who knows where the line might be drawn? -  being run by Humphrey's son Sam, and the Northern and bigger chunk being run by Humphrey himself on a somewhat idiosyncratic basis, where his word is law and some would allege, employment law is regarded as advisory (Smiths lose a lot of tribunal and legal cases).

In the North, pubs appear to be run by diktat. When you enter one, prominent notices on the wall advise you not to use electronic devices. Mobile phones are banned and swearing is not permitted. There are no televisions, fruit machines or jukeboxes. No piped music is present and conversation is, again, by notices on the bar,  "encouraged".  Until very recently you could only pay by cash, but this rule has been rescinded and even the use of phones is allowed briefly for this sole purpose.  In London, particularly, use of contactless card payment has been allowed for years. Given the nature of the client base there, it would have been suicidal for the business to do otherwise, but technically at least, the other rules pertain, though perhaps there they apply more in the breach than the observance.

Both in the North and South, Sams run clean and comfortable pubs. They often spend a lot of money reinstating pubs to their former designed layout. They are warm, have a great range of things to drink and all you have to do is observe a few reasonable rules about not effing and jeffing and not make phone conversations inside.

So, what's not to like? Well, there seems to be a downside. Humphrey has been known to descend from Tadcaster and close pubs, immediately with customers still inside, and sack managers on the spot for allowing any minor breach of the rules.  These cases have been documented in the press and include alleged shortfall in stock among other things.  I also believe from web sources that he himself has been the victim of irregular behaviour from his managers and with his low tolerance of misdemeanour, this may go some way to explaining vacancies, as does a culture of fear.  As a former professional manager, I know that is a nil sum game. If you want to succeed, you really do need buy-in from those that make it all work for you. That means being fair and collaborative.

In summary, in aiming to turn the clock back to the non-existent halcyon days of pub going, there is a balance to be struck. Very few pubs back in the day would meet Humphrey's somewhat rose-tinted vision. Most were pretty rum places indeed, and conversations were peppered with epithets and worse. Back in those days, the managers and tenants who ran your pubs for you were also valued in a very different way to nowadays. As my good friend the Pub Curmudgeon remarks here, there is much to admire in Sam Smith's pubs. The trick, surely, would be to keep high standards, without unreasonably blaming those who are forced to apply them if customers transgress against them.

It would also help to be more accommodating to silent use of electronic devices, as would more than a nod to changing times. In this respect, as in other areas, any reasonable person would likely agree that a tweak here and there would benefit everyone without throwing Humph's baby out with the bathwater.

I commend to you other pieces written by the Pub Curmudgeon and Glynn Davis. These will help round off the picture for you. 

This article was prompted by the news that one of the many closed Sam Smith's pubs in our area was said to be re-opening. I'll check it out by way of resuming my pieces on Sam Smiths pubs soon. Here's a favourite example.

London Again

We spent about a week in London following our trip to check out the flat in late May. This time we had a better reason, with two "dos" to attend. Firstly, Eileen's small company's delayed Christmas Lunch and, secondly, our nephew's wedding.  It also coincided with weather which could probably best be described as "scorchio".

Our evening of arrival was however dull and overcast, though warm enough, so we set off for a wander, heading towards the Gherkin with the intention of having a pint at the nearby  Craft pub and thence on to the Liverpool St area and home via Pizza Union in Leman Street. Craft had several inside tables booked, so we sat outside on very uncomfortable stools, with our beers. This was a pale ale from Kent Brewery which seems to be a house beer - see below.  It was okayish, but lacked that peak of cask conditioning that might have set it above ordinary. But as the only cask ale of the trip, I thought it worth mentioning as it is fair to say, it didn't inspire me to repeat the experiment.  

We then had a couple (Camden Hells for me) in the rather attractive Kings Stores, a place we've been to before, then on to another haunt, the Castle on Commercial Road. This is an attractive pub, described on Google Maps as "Sophisticated Old World Pub". Well, sort of. We had Portobello Lager here in unetched tulip ale glasses, which did nothing for an otherwise very ordinary lager of little distinction. I should add,  in its dog days, the application of Covid 19 regulations here, was less than assiduous,  but we checked in and sat in a well ventilated area, between two open doors, so all was well.

Thursday saw another trip to Craft, this time on my own and this time to the Leather Lane one to meet my GBBF BSF colleagues, Jonathan and Stan. That's where I noticed the same Kent Brewery Pale Ale, so possibly it is common to all Craft pubs. 

As befitted our BSF credentials, we all supped imported beers while catching up.

The "Christmas" meal in the posh Charlotte Street restaurant The Ninth,  was excellent and open air, but you could see a lot of closed businesses around. Hopefully temporarily. A subsequent walk to a rammed Soho, was a bit abortive, as not only were outside areas filled, but people were hanging around hoping someone would leave.

We retreated to another old haunt, Sam Smith's Bricklayers Arms, just off  Soho in Gresse Street, and some excellent Nitro Stout and a most informative chat with the landlady who had been there for years. Sadly the pub was pretty empty. For those interested, a pint of nitro stout and a half of Pure Brewed was £8.45. Cards accepted.

Next Up: Richmond on Thames and the East End.

A Hell of a Good Beer

Last time I was in London, I had a couple of pints of Camden Hell and enjoyed them. I especially liked the little stubby glass. If ever there was a glass to make one neck one's beer, this is it. Well done Camden Brewery.

Wind on over six months later, and after a couple of pints out on the first day of our visit - see previous post - I fancied trying it again. But first we had lunch. I'd booked us into the German Gymnasium at King's Cross, which proved to be an excellent choice.  This purports to be the first purpose built gymnasium in the UK - or something like that - but I rather fancy the Romans had a go at that a long time since. No matter. It is a fine imposing building with a large bar and tables downstairs and a galleried restaurant above.  Surprisingly the choice of German beers is a bit limited, but with most of them coming from Rothaus, I wasn't complaining.  Pricey enough - but hey, I don't eat out that often - certainly well below what E aspires to - so bugger the expense and well worth the cost for both food and drink.

We followed up with a trip to Soho, figuring out on what was a fine day, we'd get plenty of chances to drink outside, but first there was a mission to accomplish. A visit to a Sam's pub to establish London prices following the recent price increase. We chose the John Snow as it was near E's old office, and she could do the sentimental journey bit.  It's a nice little boozer and trade was steady on this Wednesday afternoon.  I had the stout, which needed the gas changing, while E had a half of Pure Brewed. The price list was snapped when the barman wasn't looking and duly posted to a certain Curmudgeon. Prices are on the wickedly high side and now by no means a bargain. It does make you wonder how they'll compete on this basis.  One other thing. The notices forbidding this and that, which are found all over Northern Sam's pubs, are conspicuous by their absence. I know. I checked everywhere. Double standards from Mr Smith it seems.

I won't bore you with a list of pubs, but we wandered round, drinking Camden Hells, which was everywhere, always at prices North of six quid a pint. We sat out mostly, but where we couldn't, Covid-19 checks were evident and stringent, especially it must be said at the Greene King operated Crown where a Covid-Monitor and the manager virtually sheep dipped us. Overall Nicolsons pubs managed best in combining atmosphere with safety, so well done them.

Now I mentioned at the start that I enjoyed Camden Hells. That didn't change through quite a few pints. It really is a good drop of lager, even if it is a subsidiary of ABInBev. I have heard though to get it in as many places as possible,  it was offered at rock bottom prices. Well, maybe so, but those certainly weren't passed on to the customer in any way.

We left Soho around half past five when they were starting to close off streets and bring out tables for evening boozing.  They were filling up as offices chucked out, though the area was by no means that busy. I wonder how they are getting on now in Tier Two?

I didn't steal a Camden Hells glass. I am too old for that sort of caper, but I do like it. 

Do try a pint of Rothaus in the German Gymnasium.  You'll pay little more than in some scabby King's Cross pub, but get a much better experience -  if you like a bit of class now and then.

Apologies for the poor quality of the Sam's photo. It was very bright in the pub. Click on the image and you'll get most of it. Some prices are eyebrow raising and I doubt if you'll see the cheaper beers very often , if at all.

Sam's One Pound Gamble

It is true. That doyen of the cheap pint, Samuel Smith of Tadcaster has decided to get out of that particular game, with prices rises all round on re-opening. Well as far as we can make out that's the case, but of course, with Sam's, the facts are as murky as a Railway Arch Pint.

So what do we know? Samuel Smith, outside London is pretty cheap for draught beer and lager. In their heartland, pints are often £2 or less.  Rumour now has it that mild and bitter will rise by a pound a pint and lager by up to £1.20.  An entry on Facebook by one of their landlords, which seems to be a re-hashed version of something sent by the brewery to managers (all Sam's pubs are managed) - justifies the price increase.  It reads roughly thus:

"We have had no choice but to raise our prices. For years Sam Smiths pricing has been way below our competitors. Our family run company have been producing excellent value in brewing since 1758. In these uncertain times and let’s face it, no one really knows what the future holds, to open up hundreds of pubs is really risky and costly. We are just raising our prices inline or below of our brewing friends. 

Please bear in mind how really low our prices we’re for years and at some point to sustain stability we have no choice but get inline with everyone. 

When I made a quick visit to the THT on Sunday, our landlord mentioned he had a Sam's manager in, who had mentioned in conversation, the price increase will be in the range I mention above.  Now I can't yet actually confirm it and equally, I have no idea how prices will or won't change in London, or indeed how much we can depend on what we read elsewhere.

Sam's pubs operate without televisions, with no music - recorded or live; no use of phones, laptops or even Kindles, as well as being liberally emblazoned by signs telling you in no uncertain terms what you can or can't do within. It probably isn't unfair to say that part of the quid pro quo for doing what you are told is low prices.  Having said all that, the actual sentiment of catching up may have some validity. Outside London, for draught products only, Sam's pubs are cheap as chips. In fact, cheaper than chips if you drink mild - but it is a bit of a gamble to pile it all on at once. Given the odd way Humphrey operates, like an East German holiday camp, he attracts a certain kind of customer.

Now if you are paying bottom dollar for your ale, you may well be minded to put up with all this, but if a price rise take your pint to broadly in line with elsewhere and you realise that five pints cost you a fiver more,  I dare say many won't.  After all, why pay £3 a pint to put up with Humphrey's lopsided world, when you can go elsewhere and won't have to?

Whichever way you look at it, this is a gamble and it signposts, the end of a unique business model, but if it backfires, it may also be the last blast of Humph's reign.

Wetherspoon's may be the likely beneficiary of any ex Sam's customers. While the Bailiwick of the opinions of another lopsided eccentric,  you can at leastphone your pals about it, while gently effing and jeffing. And you can get cask ale, which you can't in almost all the 33 Sam's pubs in my area.

Can't see it helping to re-open the many Sam's pubs which are currently closed.  You would have thought that a slow increase might have worked better, rather than a short, sharp shock.  Then again, people have short memories.

Treading the Grapes

There are two Sam's pubs in Heywood, so one Saturday, long before lockdown was even thought of, I felt like resuming my Sam's Odyssey and Heywood, being ten minutes away, fitted the bill nicely. Now Heywood is known as Monkey Town for reasons somewhat unknown, but speculated on. I turn to Heywood's History site for enlightenment and two explanations are offered.  I rather like the one with a pub connotation of course, whereby folklore had it that Heywood men used to have tails, and so the stools and benches in the town's pubs had holes in them for the tails to fit through. The reality, the article concludes, is that the holes were there for carrying the stools. Hmm. I'll reluctantly rule that one out then, but the same piece surmises that the nickname ‘Monkey Town’ is derived from the pronunciation of Heap Bridge - a local area - as ‘Ape’ Bridge, and probably dates from the 1840s-50s. Not quite so much fun, but let's go with that.

My first port of call was an old haunt of sorts. I used to go to the Engineers Arms quite often when I first moved to this area and liked it a lot. It is one of the few Sam's pubs in my area that sells cask beer and is a neat little pub of considerable appeal. Alas, it didn't appeal quite so much on this visit, as it was firmly closed. Not tinned up or boarded up, just looking like it hadn't got round to opening that day. No signs to indicate why.  So one down, one to go.

The other pub, the Grapes isn't far away, but with the vagaries of the roads and my uncertainty about exactly where it was, it took me longer than the four minutes my Satnav suggested.  The pub sits in a kind of island with a large car park and is surrounded by housing, so a good prospect? The pub is red brick built - like a scaled up outside lavvy - and there is a light over the door and it appears to be open - so in I go.  Inside a spartan looking bar counter faces me. There is one guy standing at the bar and a couple sitting on stools facing the bar. Behind the bar a woman looks at me uncertainly. There is a sort of question mark in the air. Is the stranger here for directions perhaps? I scotch that idea by ordering a pint of Taddy Bitter. The barmaid is pleasant and my bar companion gives me an uncertain nod. They all resume what they had been doing, which seems to be nothing at all.

I observe the pub. It looks like it hasn't changed since the thirties. It has an odd little entrance and the gents, facing the bar, also has, well an odd little entrance. To my left is a partition and I can hear the thud of darts and some mild effing and jeffing. There is another room to the front with nobody in it. The whole place is clean enough, but it looks shabby and sorry for itself. You could have filmed a 1930s period piece here without changing a thing.  (Well, you'd have had to take the Sam's notices forbidding more or less everything down, but otherwise, not a lot to change). It was devoid of any decoration or ornaments, which gave it a rather sad and dejected feel.

For want of something to do, I look in the room with the darts players and two middle-aged lads are happily throwing arrows and doing their best to put each other off.  Returning to the bar - two steps away - I sip my pint. There is only Taddy Lager on draught as well as my beer, which is both cheap and pleasant. Then, from an unknown area behind the bar comes the unmistakeable sound of someone whistling, bizarrely and somewhat astonishingly, "Scotland the Brave".  The whistler (the landlord it seems), nods to the landlady, who swaps places and disappears. He sets up his stall by rearranging the sole decoration on the otherwise bare gantry. That is, he adjusts the packets of crisps to his better satisfaction.

Things hot up. The sitting couple have a conversation about the inadvisability of wearing gumboots when you have flat feet. The guy at the bar is consulted who agrees. It all gets really going after that. I've become a part of the furniture and nobody bats an eyelid when I order a second pint. The barman warns the darts players about swearing, which is met with the sort of derision you might expect. Two more people enter, then a third, who defying the strictures of no mobiles, consults his phone silently before suddenly rushing out and disappearing for a good fifteen minutes. Everyone knows everyone else as you'd expect and the next few minutes are spent as they enquire of each other and the whereabouts of this one and that one. They conclude that their absence is because everyone is skint. Then Rochdale people are given short shrift in very pejorative terms, joined in by shouted agreement from the darts player beyond the partition. The third man returns and resumes his lager. Nobody talks to him, but suddenly a few minutes later it is clear he is a local as well, as the discussion moves on, and he chips in.

My bar companion eventually turns and looks at me and I ask him about the closure of the Engineers Arms.  Been closed since before Christmas it seems. I consult the landlady who has silently reappeared and swapped places with the landlord. "The curse of Humphrey?" I offer.  Shrugs all round, but I'm guessing it is. There is one final surprise. From the other side of the pub in a room I didn't nose in, comes a woman.  She greets her fellow denizens and then with a silently ordered half pint of lager in hand, disappears back into her lair. Was she alone? Who knows?

You know, I kind of liked this place. The people were enjoying their own company in their own way. If they resented my intrusion into their world, they didn't show it.  And it is their little world and none the worse for that. I'd love to see it in full swing, but then again, maybe I had.

I do worry that this pub may suffer a bit with the current closure of pubs and the Engineers will no doubt still be looking for a new manager.

And yes, it was gumboots, specifically that was talked about. Not wellingtons, but gumboots.

Sloppy Behaviour

When I was young it was common custom in many pubs to "recycle" back to the customer, overspill from poured beer in the drip tray,  Usually a tell tale pint glass with a few inches of beer stood by the drip tray and unless you watched like a hawk, a small amount of this was put in your glass first and then topped up with fresh beer.  If you were unaware of this bad practice, or just not near the offending pump and thus oblivious - then that's what happened. Nearly everywhere. Breweries and landlords then, as now, make use of what they can to preserve stocks and gain margin.  I was told once - though the truth of it may be different - that the reason tall founts, keg or cask were used in Scotland, was to make the visibility of the beer and therefore its freshness obvious to the customer. Attempted "slopping" the consumer became something of a game, where you'd fix the barperson with a gaze that said "Don't try it with me Pal"  while he or she looked for ways to do it without you noticing.

I know this as I was both an avid watcher outer for such happenings and, in my years behind the bar, a reluctant exponent of it, though only when the Boss was there. When he wasn't, the drip trays were tipped down the sink and we also took great care  to avoid wastage in pouring. I too, way in the past,  have been warned by an intended sloppee - in no uncertain terms - not to try and do it with him. And rightly so.

This still goes on,but perhaps much less nowadays. I get the impression that in these times of Health and Safety and much better hygiene awareness, that most in the trade refrain from it, if not always, at least in most cases.  I for one always try and look to ensure I see my glass filled freshly. Over the years I have though, pulled various people up for it and refused the pint.  (A small amount of freshly spilled beer from a pressurised keg is unlikely to show much sign of itself. Not so in cask beer, where even a relatively small amount of flat beer can take the edge off the liveliest pint.)

Now sadly this meander down memory lane has a point other than me thinking fondly back to unsullied pints of Diamond Heavy or Tennents Lager.  On Thursday I was shown in the most blatant of ways, that in some places, this malodourous practise flourishes, though fortunately I was the witness in this case, not the victim.

In London and in increasingly heavy rain, we took a stroll round Covent Garden buying Christmas cards and watching the world go by.  In time we had a couple of pints of excellent stout in the Porterhouse Brewery in Maiden Lane and then in even wetter weather, headed somewhere that I could try a half of Sam Smith's Yorkshire Stingo,  rarely if ever, seen on cask.  A bit of drama ensued first of all as we entered though. A old lady was lying sparked out on the tiles, with anxious folks around her. In a booth overlooking the bar, we were asked to watch belongings as they fettled the woman in distress. I ordered a warm up pint of Old Brewery Bitter which had that distinct bottom of the barrel feeling about it.  Not quite bad enough to call for a replacement, but which was half heartedly, half supped without enjoyment.

From the vantage point of the booth, I had a good view of the set of pumps (both cask and keg) at the bottom of the bar. The pub was rammed and the barstaff busy. One lad stood out. He fussed over a new member of staff, showing her how to pour, though to me he made a pig's ear of it more than she did. I first noticed that Sam's Nitro Stout was virtually headless  though a bit of judicious swirling produced a slight one. Gas gone? Almost certainly. But he carried on regardless.  After a few more pints the bitter went off. This would be interesting. With the sparkler still on (Just makes the operation less speedy and slick) two or three pints of froth were pulled into a jug, then poured into a couple of glasses, which along with the half pint or so from when the beer went off, they were put to one side. The customer waiting for his pint was further up the bar. His half pint of cask bottoms was then topped up with the new beer. Urgh.

The horror show increased in intensity. Next the jug was shared into pint glasses and the beer topped up again with fresh. Now much of this beer would have been in the beer line and thus bottom of the barrel.  I shudder to think what it tasted like.  Wheat beer was then taken directly from its drip tray, poured into a beer glass and the beer topped up with fresh. All such spillages were, in varying amounts, given direct to customers, but not to these that could see what was going on.  Shocking stuff.

Now was this the rogue behaviour of one barman? Was he under instruction? Did he simply not know better than to do this?  I couldn't say, but the pressure on Sam's landlords to deliver the maximum volume from containers is well known.

By this time, the old lady's relatives had come back. She was fine and was apparently in the habit of conking out. Her daughter took her off in cab, while the rest of he family returned to drinking.  We didn't have another drink given what we'd both witnessed and went off elsewhere.

It was still pouring down.

So I didn't have my Stingo, a mere £7.40 a pint, but  I will do before I go back North again. Just not in a very ornate pub in Holborn.

We nipped into the Citte of Yorke after, but it was rammed. Oh and in the other pub in Holborn we paid by card - as everyone else seemed to be doing. If Humph stops that in London, he'll have no business left. 

Last word. I have a witness. E watched all of the horror show with me.

What Time's Mr Smith Coming?

It is a peculiarity of Sam Smith pubs that they hide their ownership light under a bushel. Particularly appropriate as of course, as any ful kno, a bushel was, following the Norman Conquest, part of the legal measure of English wine, ale and grains. But I digress, though anyone seeking out The Junction could easily pass it by, as there is nothing to identify the building as a pub, with even the sign being obscured by trees and bushes. Hidden in plain sight you might say.

So what's it like? Well, a big, ordinary looking, off white building on the corner of a main road and, well, another main road. On a junction you might say.  The Junction sprang to fame a few years ago when Humphrey turned up on New Year's Eve at 8.30 p.m, sacked the licensee on the spot and summarily chucked the denizens therein out on the street. The Oldham Chronicle has a report of it all, as does the Daily Mirror. Worth a background read to learn of the somewhat chequered history of this otherwise ordinary pub. I seem to recall tales of a sit-in too, but memories fade. My take back in 2012 is here.

Putting this all behind me, I called in the other night at tea-time.  Enter on the right and you are in a rather plain, but welcoming public bar, with a J shaped bar counter, large windows making the place bright and airy. A dart board and oche against one wall and looking round, some fine pictures of Sam's bottled beers of yore. Rectangular small tables were occupied by half a dozen cheery locals - well cheery with each other - they totally ignored me.  A pot bellied dog of uncertain provenance completed this bucolic scene. Looking through to the other side a very cosy lounge looked attractive. I reckoned I'd turned the wrong way at the door, but time would tell.

The barmaid was friendly though and my ordered pint of Dark Mild (£1.34) was fetched from the lounge ("It's been poured more recently there" quoth she.)  Top lass. She also turned a fan by the bar off as it "might deafen me", but actually while I'd noticed it, it hadn't bothered me at all.  The locals were in reminiscing mode, talking of beers of yore, though each seemed, in the time honoured Sam's way, to be drinking lager mixes. ("Yes, Lees Stout was called Archer") I nearly chipped in, but didn't. 

After a while, as my pint sank lower, (2.8% and delicious) the barmaid enquired of the codgers if they'd yet bought tickets for the meat raffle. "Classic" I thought as they all chorused that they had.  One or two drifted off and I thought that it might be good to try the lounge for another. I'm glad I did.  The lounge was splendid. Comfy nooks and crannies, bench seating throughout, bric a brac here and there and again, excellent beer posters.  One old lad, with three very doddery old ladies  - I noticed as he escorted them to the facilities - ordered them all halves of Alpine. He gave me a cheery hello. I wandered round. Two lads, again drinking lager, were chatting earnestly; a couple sat contentedly in an other cosy area and at the end of the bar, was a fellow drinking Dark Mild. "Aha" I thought.

The barmaid engaged me in conversation of the "You're not from around here" variety, but in a pleasant way, I remarked about the lounge being an attractive area. "Yes", she agreed, "but it's a bugger to clean." Seems she manages, cleans and does everything else. Well, Humph likes his pound of flesh. We also chatted about Pure Brewed Lager which is sadly only in bottles now, the keg version having been a bit too fobby for stocks. Interesting stuff.

Checking the walls from my position at the bar, the usual notices prohibiting this and that were somehow less jarring in this attractive pub, which reminded me with a jolt of how pubs used to be back in the 70s and 80s.  As I stood, earwigging at the bar, I overheard a conversation with a local.  "The big boss is coming." Surely not Humph? But it was. He was expected at half six to pick up keys for another pub which was awaiting new managers. Blimey.  He arrived at about 6.40. I've met him once before and he hadn't changed much. Nice dark suit, dapper, alert and slim with a neat semi comb-over. He didn't look round particularly, merely said hello to the barmaid /manager, she gave him the keys and off he went.

The excitement was over. I finished my pint and reflected on seeing Humph again. Some people never see him at all. Ever. Two or three minutes at the most he was there. You might have blinked and missed him, but I didn't. As Max Boyce once said "I know - coz I was there."

I was telling the barmaid of E's liking for Pure Brewed. She said I should bring her and you know, I will.  It's a smashing little pub and even at £3 a bottle, a round with a pint of Dark Mild will be less than a fiver.

Picture of poster taken on the QT. Nice innit? And no. I didn't ask Mr Smith for a selfie, but he must have been pleased at the efficacy of his prohibition of swearing. I didn't hear a single profanity.




 

All Quite Pleasant

I may have mentioned it before but Sam Smith's,  through its takeover of Rochdale and Manor Brewery, have a lot of pubs in my area. They also, in common with Sam's elsewhere, have a lot of closed pubs, with the usual sign in the windows "Management Couple Wanted - Live In". Thus was my plan to visit the Yew Tree, a fine and imposing pub between Rochdale and Royton thwarted. The pub was closed, awaiting the next hopefuls.

But you are never too far away from a Sam's boozer, so I went back towards Royton to one which is well known to me - it is in fact probably the closest equal pub to my local the Tandle Hill Tavern - but is in the opposite direction for Tandleman Towers. So, oddly, despite my thirty odd years in the area - and knowing many who go there, I've never set foot in the place. Time to rectify this oversight.

The pub, The Pleasant, is on a main road, a rather modern looking building in a residential row.  Pretty ordinary really.   As I approached at teatime in pissing rain, a fellow imbiber entered with me. At least I wouldn't be on my own.  To my left a door said "Lounge" and right another said "Snug". My companion turned right and I glimpsed a pool table. Hmm. I don't think I've ever seen a pool table in a Sam's pub. I thought Humphrey scorned all forms of entertainment for the masses, but there it was. "How odd" I thought, turning left into the lounge.

A rather bare, but comfortable room greeted me. A sole drinker sat reading a newspaper, glancing up and nodding to me. The room was served by the same bar as the snug, in which I could see four workers in various degrees of highvizness, overalls and whatnot, bantering cheerily. So not that busy then, though I do know Sundays are popular. I should have gone then probably.  Still we have to work with what we've got. The woman serving me remarked on the unseasonality of the weather - and being British and knowing the correct style of response, I agreed, adding for good measure some disparaging remarks about the quality of the summer we've just had. So all was well. My pint of Sam's Light Mild (perhaps a little sharp) was a mere £1.34.  Looking round there was the usual number of prohibitions on the wall. No effing and jeffing, no phones, laptops or downloading music (why?) and a reminder of how long you had to sup up at closing time. This seems a somewhat repetitive obsession of Messrs Smith, but there you go. At least you know where you are. Beers were Light Mild, Taddy Bitter, Old Brewery Bitter, Alpine and Taddy Lagers. The famous half Alpine, half Taddy was the choice of my sole companion.  The lads in the snug were all on lager too, though of what mix, I couldn't tell.

Then horror on horrors. A mobile phone rang in the bar and in hushed tones, after exchanging endearments with his/someone else's wife/girlfriend or whatever, the callee, said words to the effect of "I have to go. I'm in The Pleasant and mobiles aren't allowed."  Seems Humph has put the fear of God into his customers on that one. Less so on the effing and jeffing I'd suggest, but all of it was in the context of fitting bathrooms, exchanges about how the day had gone and so on, so to my mind at least, harmless enough.  One lad called through to me saying that he didn't care ("couldn't give a fuck") about Humph's rules. Sooner or later he'd shut the pub anyway, like he had the Yew Tree he observed.  "Aha" I thought. "I could have saved a journey here."  

My pint was finished, so bidding goodbye to my sole companion in the lounge and shouting a farewell to the denizens of the snug, which was answered by all, I left in the (still) teeming rain.

Pleasant in the Pleasant? Certainly. I hope Humph doesn't shut it.

I must go on a Sunday and see what it is like. It would, like most pubs, be better full I'm sure, but I quite like the bare 70s look. Sorry about the photos which reflect the gloominess of the day.

No evidence of any Sam's bottles were seen. Just a fridge full of various Scintilla soft drinks.

Slipping in for a Pint

A roaring coal fire, a busy little bar with banter flowing, comfy bench seating and a living room like atmosphere probably tells you that the pub is owned by Samuel Smith.  Add in a dismal, rain sodden  Bank Holiday Monday and all you have to worry about is whether the locals will welcome you, ignore you, or just be puzzled by your presence. Read on and all will be revealed.

The Slip Inn in deepest Milnrow is rather a neat little pub from the outside. Even as the rain battered down, it had an air of cheerful permanence that belied the weather. Solidly stone built, unusually it didn't have bay windows on each side of the front door, but two smaller ones apiece, rather like a schoolchild's drawing.  A small corridor - and it is pretty damn small here - reveals a couple of dinky little rooms off to the left, one with a smouldering coal fire and one without and the bar ahead of you, facing the main room which is comfortable with solid cast iron tables, bench seating and assorted regulars, all watched over by a rather diminutive barmaid who greeted us civilly enough.  The customers did their best to ignore us, but you could tell that our presence there puzzled them somewhat. And why wouldn't it? What indeed were we doing there at all?  I can empathise with that sentiment.  We could hardly have been on holiday after all and did kind of stick out a bit. OK. A lot.

Sadly there was no mild, dark or light on the bar. While E took a seat, I could have chosen Sovereign, OBB (keg) Stout and on the lager side, Double Four, Alpine or Taddy Lager. I ordered the stout while E plumped for a half of Taddy Lager. The locals resumed their banter which had died down slightly. There was a spot of minor effing and jeffing, but the barmaid shushed that from time to time. The edicts of Humphrey on this subject, clearly displayed on the usual notice, were being taken much more in the breach than the observance, but it was low level harmless stuff. Banter was of the "Where's so and so?" and the like, but mostly it was just the easy familiarity of those who had known each other for years and could readily pass the time with one another. One fellow seemed the ringleader of the denizens, but was a bluff, pleasant sort. In fact everyone was just enjoying themselves harmlessly. The accents were rural Rochdale - sort of Lancastrian - but not quite.  The fire - no shortage of coal when Humph is paying - emitted a fearsome radiated heat, causing one woman to suddenly rise and flee. In response to enquiries, she remarked about being boiled alive. It was a fair point and she lurked about, not quite sure where to go, while we, a bit further away, just enjoyed it.

As time ticked on, one or two left and one or two arrived. One customer was ribbed for his need to leave to be home for his tea, promptly at five, but he shrugged that off easily enough. It was all pretty easy going and while nobody spoke to us, nobody was remotely unpleasant.  Around five o'clock the excitement of the early leaver was augmented by a barmaidy shift change.  A few pleasantries were exchanged and the job was done. Everything lurched on much as before. My stout was fine. A bit like Guinness with actual stout characteristics. You know, roast barley, hops, malt. That sort of thing. E enjoyed her Taddy, though she would have preferred Pure Brewed which wasn't available.

Much to the astonishment of our fellow drinkers, we had another. I topped my glass up with further half of stout, while E, daringly, had a Double Four which she pronounced as inferior to Taddy. So now you know.

We left shortly after, no doubt to the relief of the others. Would I hurry back? No.  Was it unpleasant? Not at all. 

I wonder what Humphrey's coal bill is like? He seeems to allow generous use of it.

What about bottles I hear you ask. Didn't spot any. Also if you want to get there by bus, all required info is on the photo if you look hard enough.

The Thirties Revisited

There's always something new and unexpected in the pub game, no matter how long you have been involved in it. Having said that, you don't really expect the unexpected in a Sam Smith's pub. OK, there may be a set of bizarre promulgations adorning the walls, advising you in polite but specific terms as to what you can or can't do and what will or will not be tolerated. Trust me though, in Sam's that's a norm - scarcely to be remarked upon at all, but rather, to be embraced as part of the ambiance - a kind of par for the course and an odd but somehow comforting enhancement to the overall experience.  What is not expected though, especially in Milnrow suburban Rochdale, which, and I'm being kind here, just isn't that sort of place, is to be accosted with, as you walk through the door and into the pub, "Table for two is it?".

The Kingsway Hotel is a very imposing building, more or less isolated on its own off a main road with an industrial estate behind it and little housing around it. It does though have a Hungry Horse more or less opposite it, so at least there is passing trade and the potential to attract it, though judging by the emptiness of the Kingsway, too much of it is doing passing and not enough doing stopping. I took the lovely E with me my for this bank holiday outing, in what can best and accurately be described, as pissing rain.  The car park is pretty big and was more or less empty as we emerged, dripping onto the parquet floor, into a rather fetching, but decidedly bare 1930's room, with a bar to left - which most unSamslike - was illuminated by only two keg fonts, one dispensing Old Brewery Bitter and the other Taddy Lager. There is a well appointed dining room straight ahead, with, on this visit, one table silently occupied by three people. The owner of the enquiring voice turned out to be the landlady, a rather charming Scots lass from South Glasgow, who seemed rather taken aback by me being taken aback by her greeting.  The confusion was sorted out when I explained we only wanted a drink. Chattily she explained that the emphasis was now on food, hence the paucity of the draught offering.  I expressed my surprise at this as it seemed at odds with Humphrey Smith's usual policy and was advised in turn that it was his idea and her partner , a chef of 17 years standing had been encouraged to up the food offering which is all cooked on the premises. Well I never.

I observed that the place was, shall we say, empty other than the disconsolate lone diners who were quite possibly enjoying Brown Windsor soup followed by Woolton Pie or some such. Our chatty host explained that it was Humph's policy to open on Bank Holidays, so open they were - until six. Looking around the pub interior and building are superb. Built in 1938, it is a fantastic example of inter war pub design. Totally unspoilt, it has a plethora of original features, such as the aforementioned parquet floor, a working revolving door, panelled walls, proper fireplaces, as as well as the rather grand lamps of the time. A bit of a worm hole to the past in fact. An overspill dining room was again tastefully decorated in the same comfortable 1930s manner. Local photos enhanced the experience, but the eerie quiet must have made dining a rather soulless experience and one which I was glad I hadn't signed up to.

As I looked around and E chatted to the boss woman, the chef, bored shitless no doubt, joined us for a chat while I perused the rather unambitious menu. Oddly given the ambition, it was mostly standard British pub grub, though E approvingly noted the inclusion of liver and onions.  In addition to the two keg offerings, there was a full range of Sam's bottles available at under a fiver each and even the revered Yorkshire Stingo was on sale at a modest - for this beer - £9 a pop. 

You know, somehow I liked this place a lot. The landlady was a delight, the building was superb, but I can't help but thinking they'd be better off trying to attract drinkers, re-open the closed vault and if dining really is the game, up the offering a bit.  I'd love to be here when it is going like a fair, but I've an idea a time machine might well be needed to achieve this.

I usually poke a bit of gentle fun at the Sam's pubs I review, but this time it just seems right to wish it well, as to lose such an architectural gem would be a great shame.

Apparently the pub only opens Wednesday to Sunday, bank holidays excepted.  

The landlady was a big fan of Humph who she thought rather a hard working and nice fellow. You can only speak as you find I suppose.

A Perfectly Nice Pub

Well it had to happen didn't it? "What?" I hear you ask? A good, old fashioned, clean, bright, Sam's pub with no oddballs whatever, that's what.

The Roebuck is bang in the middle of Rochdale, set off two main thoroughfares down a ginnel - a passageway to anyone not from the North reading this.  I called in last night pre Regal Moon, having failed in the same endeavour last Wednesday when it was unaccountably shut, though the lights were all on. A mystery that one, though I'm told the same thing happened at the same time in a couple of other Sam's pubs locally. I guess we'll never know, but with Samuel Smith there are lots of things you will never know. That's just a fact of life. Accept it and move on.

One thing to say though is that in this case I have been here before. Several times in fact, but not for some years and anyway in this case I was looking at it through fresh and critical eyes on your behalf Dear Reader.  The pub is very well laid out. A central bar with a cluster of brightly lit boxes, a well appointed room to the right of the main door and a comfortable, wooden floored main bar area with an adjoining lounge sweeping gracefully through to the right and another door to the rear. All this area has leather bench seating and the whole place gleams with cleanliness. It works.  There is the usual Sam's quirkiness with a prominent notice above the bar advising that the brewery has decreed a no tolerance policy on swearing throughout its estate. The punishment is unstated, but the threat is clear. Swear and you'll be chucked out on your ear. I therefore didn't swear and no-one else did either. See? You just have to ask.

The pub was relatively busy. In the room on the right a guy stood at the hatch to the bar, alternating his desultory chat to the barman with a seat at a nearby table.  At the bar, some women were finishing off their drinks, Coronation St Factory style - that is after work as they all had overalls and badges. At the partition which demarcated the bar from the lounge, a couple of respectable gents, chatted on the lounge side, while in the public bar, a table was occupied by two men and a woman, all drinking beer. All were similarly respectable looking.  This was just as it should be really.

I ordered a pint of stout and the barman called me "Sir" without smirking at all. Another couple wandered in and ordered pints of cider. The orderer was similarly addressed.  This was very civilised. I scrutinised the bar - all keg. There was though a kind of new one on me - Sam Smith's Best Bitter at 3.7% dispensed from a red font.   In addition to the stout, there was OBB, Taddy Bitter, Sovereign,Taddy Lager, Alpine and Cider. I don't think Double Four was on though it might have been. There was no mild, light or dark and the two glass fronted fridges contained no bottled beers at all, just mixers and a packet of opened chocolate digestives. Nice.

As I supped up one of the table occupants came to the bar and pointed out politely that his glass, which he had just finished, had a slight chip on the rim. This was acknowledged equally politely and the man took out an old fiver and scrutinised it. He remarked to me that he was in the habit of checking new fivers for the additional etching that can be found in rare cases and described to me the "winners" so far. We talked about this pleasantly while I drained my pint and he took possession of his newly poured pint of bitter. With a smile he rejoined his companions.

As I left he wished me goodnight. The barman was nowhere to be seen, but I'm sure he would have too.

I must go back to the Roebuck on a Saturday afternoon when town is busy.  It was a nice pub, but I'd like to see it in full swing.  It would have looked better too with a couple of handpulls.

This is a Quiz League venue and the pub's success is celebrated with some gleaming trophies. I checked them to see if my name was on any, but alas no. Such cups do exist though. 

Click on images to enlarge.

Where's Humph When You Need Him?

One thing that can generally be said about Sam Smith's pubs is that while they are often rather bare looking, they are always spick and span.  That's a good thing. A nice clean pub means, in the main, nice clean beer.

The Corporation Inn is a pub I've noticed before when on my way to the nearby Curtain Theatre in Rochdale, or the odd time when sampling the delights of the curry shops on Milkstone Road, but I've never been in before.  This predominance of eateries, sari shops, kebab houses and small grocers, tells you that the pub is in an Asian dominated area, relevant only because they don't tend to frequent the boozers. (Well not officially anyway, though one hears tales.) But I digress. On a windy and wet night recently, I popped in.  Now the pub has the usual Sam's job lot of paint and no sign of ownership. Well I say popped in, but I couldn't open the door. From within came a chorused shout of "LATCH". The penny dropped and I lifted the latch and stumbled in. Three grinning faces met me. I reckon they'd observed this scene playing out a number of times, but were still enjoying it. As I would if I was them.  I sussed out one was the landlord, the other his better half and a sole customer stood at the bar.  In a small side room half a dozen other denizens were playing crib - another regular feature of Sam's pubs - and the whole place smelt strongly of cigarette smoke. I reckon the smoking area was directly outside this room, but it was so gloomy I couldn't see exactly where.

I scanned the lit plastic boxes before me, their false brass edges tarnished by years of neglect. Behind the bar I could see a room with various junk. It wasn't exactly tidy this place.  I chose Dark Mild. "Haven't got any" quoth the barman, a sort of Chauceresque rogue. The other choices were Taddy Lager, Cider or Old Brewery Bitter. "Why not have one of each? suggested my bar companion. Deciding to disregard that advice I had a pint of OBB. It was fine.  "Heading for the station?"  I replied in the affirmative, not feeling it wise to say "No actually, I've just come for a nose at you lot and your manky pub".

Looking behind me there was a rather soulless room on the left as you come in with nobody in it and on the right a carpeted and benched seating area which had two customers. One, a fairly young woman sat on her own with a half of lager, while the other, older guy sat reading his paper and supping his pint.  The landlord and his wife had gone to watch the crib players. My fellow barfly asked me what train I was getting, which put me in a difficult position, as I wasn't. This is how lies multiply, but in for a penny, I said I was meeting someone there and that seemed to satisfy.

Nothing else happened. The crib players hadn't looked in my direction once. Nor had the woman or the newspaper reader. My bar mate was lost in his own thoughts and as my pint went down, the landlord returned and watched hopefully, no doubt willing me to have another. When I finished and didn't I was given three goodbyes as I left, not forgetting to keep up appearances by turning left to the station, even though it was quicker to go right.

I again overlooked the bloody latch on the way out, but nobody shouted this time.



This pub reminded me or an old Liverpool boozer or two from 30 years ago. A few locals and year upon year of neglect. Pity, as actually with a few touches and a good clean, it could be a lot more appealing.  Wonder if owner Humphrey Smith would approve? I suspect not, but it was a pub where you are treated well enough and that's not so bad at all.

The pub sign was flickering epileptically as I took the photo. Apparently this is not a recent thing.

The Alpine Gasthof

Perhaps the oddest of Sam Smith's pubs is its take-off of a German local pub, uprooted it seems, in looks if nothing else, from Garmisch or some other Alpine resort. Only it is in Rochdale. Not only is it in Rochdale, but it is on a busy main road, which if you follow it for not too long, will take you to Bacup.  This is the Land that Time Forgot. Don't do that.

Not only is it incongruously in Rochdale, but it is in a less than salubrious part of town. One has to wonder if Sam's wanted to cement its (expired) relationship with Brauerei Aying whose lager it used to produce, why it didn't choose somewhere, more, shall we say appealing?  Somewhere with a nod to rolling Alpine meadows? Haven't they got a few in that Yorkshire place? But they didn't. It's in Rochdale, so we live with that. You will see though from the accompanying photo that the old German looking geezer forever trapped in plastic beer founts, has been released in XXL format as the pub sign. It was nice to see him again, so that's a bonus.

The pub has the usual German style high sloping roof and inside is, well, a sort of pastiche of a German pub, but done, unusually for Sam's, sort of on the cheap. It all looks kosher enough, but isn't so substantial. A bit like a film set version. It was deadly quiet when I called on the first sunny Saturday of spring.  One guy sat on the bench seating regarding the bar solemnly, playing with his loose change and supping something lagery. That was it until a barmaid appeared, cheerfully announcing she had seen me approaching on the CCTV. That's another given in almost every Sam's pub - CCTV - with warnings about it posted prominently. I shouldn't be at all surprised if they are all linked to Smith Towers as evening entertainment for Humphrey.  It certainly appealed to our barmaid who regarded it hopefully as if to a crystal ball, looking for customers - or maybe Mr Smith?  I ordered a pint of Samuel Smith Stout. Very tasty it was too and a mere £2.30 a pint for a 4.6% beer. A bargain.  I sat at the bar, munching own brand pork scratchings and waited for something to happen. It didn't for ages then the customer who had shown no sign at all of knowing the barmaid, burst into life, went to the bar and remarked about the weather, calling the barmaid by name while his mix of Taddy Lager and Alpine was dispensed. What excitement.

This hectic pace was maintained when two "lads" in shorts with a child toting a fearsome looking plastic knife came in. Two pints of "half n half" were ordered.  Yes, the local drink again. Taddy cut with Alpine, or is it Alpine beefed up by Taddy? Either way, they spookily knew the barmaid too - and the sole customer. This was great end to end stuff.

The barmaid engaged me in dental conversation about the detrimental effect pork scratchings can have on your gnashers, while remarking that it was always busier on Sunday, presumably having noticed me prowling around the other deserted rooms, though not the balcony, which I felt might be going too far.

I should also mention the lass from the kitchen appeared and gave me a cheery "Hello".  There is lots of restaurant seating in the back, on the balcony and in a variety of rooms - all deserted.  That's very German. The barmaid mentioned that the pub had been done up a few years ago in exactly same colours as it had always been, so it is original I suppose. I think the carpet was the same as the one in the Eagle, so perhaps another job lot?

So, to sum up, the bar and cold shelves had the following. In bottle, Chocolate Stout, Pale Ale, Pure Brewed and Cherry Beer. On the bar, Taddy Lager, OBB,  Sovereign and Alpine Lager (2.8%).   Disappointingly Wheat Beer was absent.

In a nod to passing hipsters, Sam Smith's Stingo ale is priced, I noticed, at a reassuringly expensive £9.30 for 500ml. Well it is bottle conditioned and 8.3%.  I don't think they had any though, but don't let that put you off.

The chatty kitchen lass assured me it wasn't always this quiet. Hmm. Roll on Sunday then.

Next up:  The Corporation Inn. One to look forward to.  Trust me.

Mr Smith Decrees

This on the face of it, located as it is on the corner of a main road,  an awkwardly situated pub if you approach it, as most do, going to and fro to nearby Rochdale Infirmary. (Indeed as your hero does when the kindly surgeons inject my arthritic knee with God knows what, every six months or so.) This time, instead of zooming by, I'm approaching more slowly and realise if I turn up the hill beside it there is plentiful parking.  Good to know as you scarcely notice that when driving past.

The Brownhill Hotel is a typical Sam Smith's pub for the area. Clearly Humph - the owner Humphrey Smith - has bought a job lot of off-white paint to do all his pubs - or most of them - and the pub is tricked out accordingly externally.  Inside there is a typical vestibule area and short corridor, and a main bar area with bench seating and  a games room to the right. Running the length of the pub a more well appointed lounge area looks inviting enough in that typical Spartan way that Sam's pubs have, but is empty save for one couple.  I see them from my vantage point at the bar, contentedly sipping lager.  In this instance, nobody looked round to check out the stranger, because they are having too good a time to bother. Around a dozen people, men and women mixed, have pole position under the main window facing the bar and they are exchanging banter and laughter with an ease that suggests they all know each other well.  The barmaid greets me with a slightly quizzical smile, possibly wondering why I'm there. I have the feeling she is the landlady.  I detect a Welsh accent and this is confirmed by two things - one an obviously Welsh husband or partner - and two - a scarf hung behind the bar sporting the legend "Cymru am Byth".  An open fireplace in the bar, already set, but in this first warm day of the year, not (yet) lit, completes the picture.

I choose a pint of Light Mild, which is 2.8%, but has the body and taste that many stronger beers would envy. It is astonishingly a mere £1.34 and really very good.  To accompany it, I buy a packet of Sam Smith branded pork scratchings which are comparatively expensive at 90p. Looking round I see behind me in the Sports Room a number of young lads are playing darts, a throwback (see what I did there) to the 70s or 80s.  I wonder idly, as a former darts player myself, if they have a league hereabouts, but there is nothing by way of notices on the wall to suggest it.  In fact there seems to be no notices or much decoration on the walls at all. I suspect this is some kind of decree from the autocratic Humph.  There is one appropriate exception.  The sole notice advises customers that "Mr Smith" has decreed that the pub must be cleared within a half hour of last orders being called and lists the times. Ominously it warns that "doubling up at last orders will not be allowed."

The bar has the usual array of brightly lit boxes. They are pretty standard here, with Cider, OBB, Sovereign and Taddy Lager, with Light Mild and Double Four lager bringing variety.  Oddly the cool shelves have no bottles whatever other than Scintilla mixers.  Almost everyone is drinking Taddy lager, though one renegade, without specifying, is served Double Four.  In fact nobody in the pub orders a drink by name, instead approaching the bar and being served with what I assume is their standard tipple.  The banter continues with the landlord observing a four playing cribbage (again) and chirruping from the sidelines when one hand was over "Winner, winner, chicken dinner." - and why not?

This was a lovely visit. It was great to see folk enjoying themselves with people they knew. I wasn't unwelcome as such, though you can't help but feel a little that you've gone to the wrong party by mistake.

I reckon though if I came in a few times, my Light Mild would also be served to me automatically.

I didn't date take any photos of the inside. I just felt that would not have been appreciated.  A local pub for local people? Yes, but in a good way.

There is an odd bare feel to Sam's pubs. I reckon the Welsh scarf was pushing the boundaries a bit and was the sole and welcome splash of colour.