Whether it's to bring on or take us off
we, despite string science will seek to quaff
whether it's for one or one round for all
we, despite evidence will make the call
whether it's faux or real wind in the mill
we, quixotics, take tilts at a swill
Whether it's to get you out of the Mousetrap plot daily or away from the all-consuming orifice to take a liberty or for a walk to see if it still barks beyond a laptop dog. From the modern joy of The Craft Beer Shop to the ancient Ship Inn we sojourn and wander for something small to ask: fluid contentment.
We in inextinguishable hope still leave our duvets, TV box sets, sometimes even our mobile phones behind to take to the road to contradict those that say the journey is the thing and not the stay at the inn. I, being unexceptional, am a ready visitor to spaces that still have tangible social atmosphere and where talk of life is a little more immediate than the possibility of insect sweat being imagined on a rock too many light years away to be fully comprehended. Yes, seen from space, these boxes of delight might resemble modestly busy ant hills, but to some they might be a base camp at the foot of a mountain and, to some it may indeed be a point of refreshment and rest after a day in an urban jungle. For us milder beasts these watering holes are evidence of a human society and a mark of dignified progression. Ultimately, whatever level of evidence to consciousness, a significant proportion of us gravitate to these enclaves populated by characters who, like ourselves, want to: whet a piercing, dry whistle on Wednesday, thrum-a-throat on a Thursday, or freshen-the-fizzog on a weekending Friday.*
Such watering holes can be a portal through which you can be in your own world and/or in theirs and happily get mortal, alive to those mundane comedic bedfellows of possibility and probability. We can have a rap in the likelihood of keeping our head strong and our bitter mild by being down amongst the vitally absurd.
*This is not ignorant of the many folks who partake of watering holes on any other days of the week, particularly soak-a-liver Saturday and saturate-a-soul Sunday, though Monday and Tuesday are mostly dried up of watering holes on this little coastal spit of the country.
The Ship Inn – At the sea's edge in Saltburn by the sea.
A pub to be sat outside of as it's on the very edge of the North Sea. Only a sea wall stops a pinch of salt and water diluting its victuals. It offers a stunning and visceral vista on the moods of the sea and the wonderful palette of the sky.
Although on very wintry days, inside is as snug as a smuggler in a safe cove. The heavy beams and thick walls ghostly whisper of a long time ago when entrepreneurship was more ship than internet. There's a weight, but not wait, to its atmosphere that chills and warms simultaneously.
There are three ale pumps, often of local cask ales, and three delineated areas inside. There are two dining areas, separated by an open doorway, and a smaller bar area where it feels like you might be asked to sing authentic sea shanties as an introduction to the community therein, which is warmed by the good ale and open fire. From the cosiness of inside you can still hear the sea's cautionary tales of derring-don't commingling with the punters' gentle chatter.
There is a generous outside seating area that enjoys a one hundred and eighty degree view taking in Saltburn Pier, the cliffs and a hefty expanse of the western reaches of The North sea.
The Guns Bar – Milton Street, Saltburn by the sea.
A punter can take to these different spaces a very good choice of craft beers on tap but its drawback is its wholesale – or should that be retail – support for the cashless societal mindset as no dubloons of any denomination are acceptable. I still prefer choice of the polymer that never lies about how much money you have to hand and can proffer as exchange for a pub experience. I still remember little buff envelopes with your weekly earnings held within with a brief explanation of your value to society.
The Marine – The Esplanade, Saltburn by the sea.
The pub also has an upstairs bar and generously appointed room that can be hired for social functions. The pub has Victorian cornices atop Elizabethan-style panelling contrasting the North sea on the horizon when it is as placid as a receded negotiating table shouting out just how far is this politically septic isle from Europe and its scurvy social justice. It's lounge and bar are soft places where a soul can drown any sorrows of burnished golden hindsight induced by that regressive, regrettable referendum reflex, to repel an armada of human rights treasures, which, like a servant's tears, can turn 568.261 ml of mild into an imperious pint of bitter.
The Marine can make you feel like you belong to a community of not-in-work crowd of lotus eaters and it is Thomas Moreish and something of a pub for all seasons.
The Clarendon, aka The Middle House – High Street, Marske by the sea.
It is a kind of audio library wherein you find regulars of the clock poring over betting slips in those who are very interested in the running skills of equine strangers and friends alike. Their bookies' runner has only twenty or so yards to go to deliver on their hopes.
The audio library has its fiction and non-fiction sections, as well as economics, history and ontological narratives to prickle the brown air. And their prices put up their dukes in good old pugilistic style to challenge the crash airbags of inflation. Also, the ethos is stoic tolerance of plastic but they more easily accept shrapnel as currency in this endearing temporal capsule.
The place is served by a Cheers-like bar which serves as a panopticon making redundant any thoughts of CCTV. You can sit in quite ornate chairs of not quite royalty status that show clear evidence of generational human sandpaper elbows and knees gladly patronising the place throughout its long history. They are upholstered by the resilient fabric of this English Oakish wooden universe.
It's the kind of place the sun would go to sit, resting after getting up too early to find it was outdone by a scandinavian frieze that wouldn't give it a look in all the day through. To me it is an Old Peculier place, where I go to meet on old friend whose opinion and taste has somewhat diluted almost to the same degree as the regulars' opinions and tastes have hardened.
Black and white pictures of old Marske adorn the walls and conjure up the notion that the dun dim décor is evidence of the whole place being recently colourised as a nod to modern technological progression. It has what looks like the oldest one-armed bandit in Christendom on which the punters spend time and money shaking archaic hands with the coin of disadvantage. They line up in a kind of ceremony they hope will be accompanied by brass. The gaslight-like candelabra hang from the ceiling to illuminate an inebriate light-bulb moment that ferments in a glass forever half full.
The Wynd Craft Beer Shop – The Wynd, Marske by the sea.
The door pops a threshold and you are greeted by a welcoming smile and a host who has encyclopaedic knowledge of the victuals therein. After your eyes are drawn to the myriad cans in the fridges on display, there's a tasteful board to surf as you ride the waves of consciousness until sand is obscured by the tide gratefully accepting her invite to take shelter from the norm. The on-tap drinks board is a treasure map offering the chance to play happy families and just friendly acquaintances, dealing the cards in a nine card flush, as the owner imparts her wisdom so we can be drink and gambol aware in a welcoming, comforting space.
She can shepherd the Hamlets and guide the generally unsure, in separating the wheat from the hop and can do an admirable Ginger Rogers tap dance, caring for her clientele sour by sour, ensuring good beer always chimes with good cheer. There's always fecund talk of the subjectivity of taste to break any ice a traveller to the seaside town of Marske might bring in from a bleak midwinter day. The place also offers a haven for dogs that receive special treatment in the shape of treats, behind the bar, from the generous owner.
Golden Smog – Hambletonian Yard, Stockton.
The place is decorated with eclectic narratives: from a pictorial history of Tees industries and housing to nostalgia from the Stockton 60s music scene and political commentary, with well-known music posters being altered to voice a witty and rebellious perspective that epitomises the pub's positive sense of self and society's meeting points. It also has a significant dog clientele as visitors are welcome to bring in their furry friends to share the convivial atmosphere.
It occupies a small physical space - the alleyway entrance leading to the place is easily overlooked from the high street - but is vast once inside as its earnestness and thoughtfulness of social dynamics encourages an expansion of consciousness even before you partake of the varied and delectable victuals. There's a choice of five pumps of regularly different small brewery ales and the pickled eggs are to die for. There is a wide range of continental tipples, from the ecclesiastical Belgian brews that include the soul seducing Delirium trilogy, to the tasty, persuasive German Rauchbier, a rich, smoky beer that beautifully finishes off any deeply pleasing session in the Smog, which can begin at 2pm and end at 10pm every day of the week.
Drinking places, or watering holes, often reflect attitudes or moods of its punters,:whether it's drinking to forget - but never forgetting to drink; drinking to remember; drinking in the social space to while away an hour or two; to meet with some kind of destiny or other; or to meet a familiar or reasonably talkative stranger, there's a shared sense of freedom afforded by circumstance, happenstance or wilful contrivance. Whatever the motivation, the hole will provide succour, solace, affirmation and/or stimuli of existence and persistence.
Another key factor in any experience of any watering hole is the chemical poison on offer. Will it be a staple, traditional, conventional, dependable, totally familiar drug of choice, or might it be a swig of wonder, a deep draw of chemical adventure opening doors of perception? Will there be drug induced swimming or floating in a psycho-amorphous primordial swamp, or merely a treading water in a familiar and comforting pool, or will it be a popcorn process from seeded thought, ideas puffed up to fully form sugar-coated drama unfit for human consumption? Will the string taste of candyfloss or of hemp or be a tasteless hank to tie and bloat with unsuspecting melancholy?
Who knows, except the traveller who gets up off their remote to make the necessary small steps or pliant leaps for humankind in order to moisten feet of clay so as to mould a social singularity loosely referred to as personal life. Do watering holes appeal on the basis they provide visceral, real spaces encouraging us to hold up a mirror in order to meet our maker? What's your poison?
