Chapter 16
Pitching pennies

Email To: Suzanne and David
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 2 May
Subject: The season has begun

Dear Suzanne and David,

The nation is gliding into the English Season, an elaborate diversion of sporting events, flower shows, art exhibitions and outdoor operas originally created to distract the upper classes from lamenting over a lack of spring and possibly summer. Of the twenty-plus annual events all involve champagne, most involve horses or dogs and some involve silly hats. And then there is Wimbledon. Tennis buffs everywhere, optimistic that the tournament can produce a UK champion, will be releasing their British balloons of expectations most likely to be met only by the escaping sound of defeat and rain … again.

Nevertheless it is a great time to visit. Check your diary.

Leslie Ann

There is a misconception that people often frequent their ‘local’ to offload their troubles. Our personal experience did not bear this out; however, certain patterns of patronage did exist. Living just outside the village, we were not always privy to spontaneous gatherings in the pub that could materialize when one neighbour walked to the mailbox to catch the last post at 4.30 pm and bumped into a dog walker taking his constitutional. A brief tête-à-tête would ensue. Chitchat about horse mucking, the evening television schedule, dinner plans and general health took scarcely a minute. The idea of continuing the conversation later in the evening over a pint of Jackson Stops bitter was agreed on and so it went forward—a party was in the making.

Friday nights and Sunday afternoons seemed to be the most popular times for villagers to visit the pub en mass. It was common knowledge to all who fancied a chat, otherwise known as a ‘chin wag’, or perhaps a game of nurdles, not to overcrowd the snug bar. This was in respect of the customers who had possibly travelled miles to enjoy the restaurant’s Michelin Guide-recognized cuisine. Courteously, villagers only seeking social stimulation arrived after the diners had enjoyed an aperitif and made their way to their tables. This then left the bar area free for more important matters such as tossing pennies and enjoying a pint or two.

This intimate 3.5 x 3.5-metre space, warmed by a coal fire in winter and cooled by an open door in summer, is unique in the whole of England. Each year it plays host to the World Nurdle Championship. It might be fair to say, however, that most of England is unaware either of this championship or of the game itself, since to my knowledge it is only played in two other pubs in the country, or perhaps the world.

In order to understand the seriousness and complexity of this sport you must refer to the ‘Pamphlette of the Anciente Gayme of Nurdles’. This very formal document, written by Timotheus Seal Esq, was only recently discovered or, if the truth were told, recently written by Tim, our very own and much loved chronicler of village life and everything frivolous, fanciful and fictitious. With great wit and much effort, he created a totally authentic rulebook for the game, complete with tattered wine-stained pages, torn edges and unreadable Old English script. This pamphlet remains prominently displayed behind the bar in order to impress, intimidate and instruct all novices to the game.

The first essential principal states:

all Player drink at leaft a quart of ftrong ale before the Gayme. This helps the Player get in hif eie. Shoulde a Woman be permitted to play —agaynst lest they become witless and talke too much Polite custome they are recommended to drink small beer.

This having been established:

each Player shall have thirteen coyn or token which he shoulde throe at the target hole or pit, with the intention to place as maney in the hole as he can.

In other words it is a game of pitching pennies, in this case old English pennies. The coins form a collection assembled from the reigns of Queen Victoria, Edward VII, King George V and VI and, of course, Queen Elizabeth II. Participants, in rotation, attempt to throw all thirteen coins into a hole only 7.5 centimetres in diameter, which has been carved out of a wooden bench. It is essential to have a glowing sense of humour while tossing, as barracking is not only allowed, it is strongly encouraged. Having a few pounds in your pocket to sustain the continuous flow of beer is also encouraged but talent, thankfully, is not, unless, of course, you want to win.

The objective of the esteemed English public house has changed significantly since its inception back in Roman days, when legionnaires needed rest and relaxation after weeks of pillaging. Independent watering holes soon began to spring up on the Great Roman Roads until the Church saw the potential for raising much needed capital and started opening their own inns, ale houses and taverns for travellers.

The rising consumption of heady local brews brought increased restrictions from the authorities designed, no doubt, to save the people from their own wickedness. Later, the government used taxation, regulation and reform to alter English drinking habits which, in truth, had begun to get out of hand. The onset of the First World War brought into legislation the famous licensing laws governing the hours between which an establishment could remain open. Factory crews and munitions workers were not allowed to return from lunch in a drunken state, which meant imbibing hours were slashed to the bone. Only recently has the government begun to grapple with this ‘nanny state’ draconian law as public demand for a loosening of the parliamentary belt on alcohol consumption has grown in popularity.

Although there are nearly 60,000 pubs in the United Kingdom, sources say as many as twenty pubs a week close down and, of those left, only a handful still brew their own beer. In fact, in the past ten years almost 150 regional and national beer brands have disappeared. The good news is that a greater number of pubs are evolving with better-stocked bars and inventive kitchens. Pub food, a more than generous description, was once no more than what could quickly be unwrapped, thawed and microwaved. Too often, semi-appalling, defrosted scampi and fries in a basket were tolerated because they were familiar and comforting. Now, more pubs are finally ‘stepping up to the plate’. Still, too many have only taken baby steps towards improvement, as evidenced by a typical menu I encountered while visiting a nearby county. Handwritten on a blackboard above the bar were the specials of the day: lamb shanks, trout, duck, chicken, mackerel and beef. On closer inspection, I noticed the common denominator of the entrées was sauce. If this was France I could understand; however, with my cynical hat on I suspect gravy, the preferred English expression, was no more than a cover-up for less than top-notch quality ingredients.

Drinks too have definitely become more innovative. Once upon a time the only alternative to lager, ale or stout would have been cider, or, if you were lucky, a bottom-of-the-barrel wine. Today a ‘flying virgin’ can be shaken and poured in seconds. Alcopops, or candy in a glass with a kick, fill shelves in the fridge alongside American bottled beers, the ‘in’ brew. Even smoking, once a team sport, is less prevalent than a few years ago and women, in most cases, have replaced the loyal and obedient dog as the best companion to take to a pub.

I am all for improving the reputation of English cooking; after all there is a culinary mountain to climb. Certainly not all establishments have raised the bar on quality, but those gastropubs that have done so are a delight to discover. More and more traditional eateries are being transformed into metropolitan settings by adding discreet lighting and canvases of modern art. Simple blackboard menus are being replaced with a carte du jour written in script littered with enough pretentious verbs and adjectives to complete a short story: monkfish tangled with copulating tagliatelle, a coil of sweet potatoes, a rope of polenta croutons and knot of chocolate crumble. Old classic dishes such as hairy tatties (potato pancakes) and spotted dick (suet and raisin pudding) are now, more often than not, relegated to the cook’s second string of recipes as public tastes evolve.

Wandering aimlessly on a spring bank holiday weekend, Bill and I came across a village that on first blush revealed little to the eye. Casting a glance to the right, and then to the left down lanes and drives, we noticed a shimmer of gold and a glint of red emanating from an object slightly hidden behind the branches of a mature oak tree. The rather elegant crest emblazoned on the Martins Arms Inn sign screamed of ambience and classic cuisine. We had to go in for a look. Once in, we had to stay for a meal. As smart as the dining rooms and pub areas were, the garden of a hundred shades of spring green pulled us out into the sunshine.

There we lounged, enjoying our lunch of smoked salmon and chilled sauvignon blanc amongst the darting butterflies and tiny tots playing on the daisy-strewn lawn. Pubs with this kind of commitment to quality are seldom empty and are now, more than ever, emulated. I believe the time has finally come to remove English cooking from the jocular ‘Shortest Books in the World’ list.