A trip to the pub was much more memorable in the old days. Your money went further, and you had time to enjoy your surroundings. Time to explore the nooks and crannies of these often ancient buildings.
Most pubs still had the same basic set up from the reign of Victoria. You entered via a snug by the front door, a calm sidebar with a few stools, which allowed a peace away from the main drinking zone. From here you moved to a main room with calming mucky floors, and a proper pool table with yellow and red balls. Bar Billiards. An actual cigarette machine. A beer garden to shiver in during winter with bitter pints of ale.
If you looked further, some of the older pubs even contained a Porter Carriage.
Tradition insisted that a skeleton decorated the door. Sometimes a skull, sometimes a full man in a cloak. But an image of bones was always etched into the wood of this room.
Inside the rooms were as wooden as a sauna. A few simple chairs and wooden tables dotted the room, providing respite for old men. If the Porter Carriage had windows, the curtains were drawn. You never had to fight for a space, even on a busy Friday or Saturday night.
No one made you drink porter in this room, but you often received a glare should you enter with anything different in your glass. Lager was banished on sight. Whisky was just about allowed.
If the snug dealt in solitude, and the main room in socialising, the Porter Carriage dealt in time. You sipped your drink, and spoke in whispers. After a while, everything stopped. Keeping control your drinking speed was the key. Porter is a malty drink, you can ration out sips for a long time.
One pint was your limit in the Porter Carriage. That was the whole point. I saw the consequences of boorishness once. A pair of lads shouting at the far table. Complaining about a lack of vodka at the bar. The old men kept their heads down, and I did the same.
Not many of the objects in the room cast shadows. But what gloomy flickers that did exist grew longer, and darker than the pints in our hands. I had a strange sense that the noise levels were not dimming, but fading to a light grey colour, the colour of old age.
Soon the table was empty, and a member of staff broke the illusion by opening the door. She cleared the glasses, and wiped away a thick layer of dust that coated the now empty chairs.
That was pubs in the old days. A pedestrian place of wonder. And I understand why pubs now lack a Porter Carriage. But I cannot say I do not miss them, and the infinite wonder that they brought.
Line: Some of the older pubs even had a Porter Carriage.
