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In this second installment about the pubs, I was happy toregard as a “local,” we start off with the house move I referred to in theprevious post. That relocation took place in 1985 and was a move from thecounty town of Kent to Tonbridge a smaller market town in the south west of thecounty. I’d been working in the town since late 1979, which was just a fewmonths after moving to Maidstone, because it hadn’t taken me long to discoverthe high cost of commuting daily from Maidstone into London. After moving to the capital in March 1978, I secured aposition with Hedges & Butler who, at the time, were the wine and spiritsdivision of Bass. My job in quality control, made use of the degree I’d gainedat Salford University, even though “A” levels were probably a sufficient qualificationfor the position. I enjoyed the work, and H&B were a good employer, even thoughthe salary wasn’t brilliant, but given the company’s location at Bromley-by-Bowin London’s East End, the commute from Maidstone was lengthy andexpensive.
Fortunately, I managed to find a science-based position withan engineering company, based in Tonbridge, roughly 17 miles from Maidstone. Ihad no car in those days, so still had to travel into work, by train. It was apleasant journey from Maidstone, along the Medway Valley Line to Tonbridge, viaPaddock Wood, and as well as being quicker and easier than commuting into EastLondon, there was the added bonus that my new job paid significantly more moneythan my previous one.I continued commuting between the two towns until 1985 whenI moved in with the present Mrs PBT's. I won’t into too much detail, apart fromsaying that my previous wife had grown apart. Possibly, we had married tooyoung, (we were both just 22 at the time), but with different views aboutstarting a family, as well as what we wanted out of life, we slowly driftedapart and ended up going our separate ways. So, not only did my move toTonbridge mean a change of location and employment, it also meant a change ofpartner as well.
Having worked in Tonbridge for nearly five years, I wasalready quite familiar with many of the town’s pubs, a task made easier by thefact that lunchtime drinking was quite common in the workplace especially, andespecially so on a Friday. The pub my colleagues and I frequented the most, wasthe Man of Kent, a lovely old weather boarded, white-painted Kentish pub, tuckedaway down a side street, just off Tonbridge High Street. The Man of Kent alsoholds the honour of the first Tonbridge pub I ever drank in, as shortly afteraccepting job offer, I made a return visit to the town, in order to spy out theland, get to know the town I would be working in, and plan out the quickestroute from the railway station to my new employer’s factory at Cannon Bridge Works.Getting to know the town, meant getting to know the pubs,and as well as being an attractive and welcoming traditional pub, I discovered,to my great joy, that the Man of Kent served a very acceptable pint of Draught Bass.The excellent Bass remained a welcome feature of the pub for many years to come, butsadly didn't last through into the 21st Century. It’s saving gracetoday, is the Harvey’s Sussex Best. Whilst the Man of Kent wasn’t exactly alocal, it remained as one of the primary pubs for a lunchtime pint, especiallyon a Friday, and many is the time that a colleague I worked with in the R&Ddepartment would stagger back to the office and try not to fall asleep in the afternoon.
When I first moved in with the present Mrs Bailey, she wasrenting a cold and rather drafty house, at the top of a hill, in the aptly named BalticRoad. Once my divorce settlement came through, and I gained access to my share ofthe equity from the house in Maidstone, we purchased a modernised and farwarmer terraced house, tucked away down a narrow side street, just a few minutes’walk away. We stayed at our new home forseven years, and after starting a family moved once more to a larger 1930’ssemi, where we have lived these past 30 odd years. This is by far the longest period I have everlived in one property, and whilst Eileen hasn’t been anywhere near asperipatetic as I have, the same applies to her.Prior to the moving to our current home, there were two pubsthat I started to used as locals, the first one being the Foresters Arms in QuarryHill, a two bar Shepherd Neame house run initially by an old school landlord,but later by a much younger couple, who were far more welcoming than the previousand slightly scary one-eyed landlord. This individual wore an eye patch, anddespite his visual impairment, didn’t miss a trick. He would sit on a stool thesaloon, on the customer’s side of the bar, holding court amongst his equallyaged cronies, whilst surveying all he saw. He would also instruct the bar staffas to who to serve next.
Mike and Daphne were much more friendly, and back in thosepre-child days Mrs PBT’s and I would often head down to the Foresters for theevening, taking our pet dog along as well. The friendly, but no-nonsense youngcouple didn’t stay that long, and following their departure, Shepherd Neamespent a lot of money turning the place into a single bar pub. Unashamedly the brewery management went afterthe younger crowd, and whilst this might have worked if they’d retained bothbars, it didn’t with the new look, open plan interior they’d created. Worsestill Shepherd Neame beers went downhill, and whilst there’s never beensatisfactory explanation for this, many Shep’s drinkers of my age, and beyond,noticed the same thing.
Fortunately, I managed to find a second pub through a workcolleague, and although this was further away from where we were living, itsoon ended up becoming my local, in place of the Foresters. My new local, went underthe strange,and slightly creepy name of Uncle Tom's Cabin. The clue is in the name, as the pub,which was previously known as the Victoria, was bought by an individual called Tom who,must have thought his rather dubiously sounding name was the right one for thisback street local. It was certainly comfortable and cosy, which was possiblyapt for the “cabin” part of the name, but the novel wasn’t without controversyin its time, even if it was anti-slavery, and to my mind at least, never seemedreally appropriate for a pub in late 20th century Britain.
Tom was a friendly and good-natured individual, who ran theplace with his wife Margaret, even though according to rumour, the landlady wasrather fond of a drink, an occupational hazard for many a licensee. The pub wassituated in Lavender Hill, a narrow road of Victorian terraced houses, and consistedof two of these cottages knocked through into one. It was a free house, andstocked beers from the former South Wales Clubs Brewery of Pontyclun, South Wales. This was a strange choice ofale, but I imagine there were financial reasons behind the decision, possiblyin the form of a loan. These sort of tied loan agreements, were quite common, atone time in the licensed trade, and might still be today, for all I know. Severalyears later, the SWCB changed its name to the Crown Brewery, and later mergedwith Llaneli-based Buckleys Brewery. I was never that keen on the beers fromPontyclun, as whilst they may well have suited workers employed in the coal andsteel industries of South Wales, they didn’t impress local Kentish drinkers whoprefer a few more hops in their beer.
Several years later, a couple called Richard and Joan, tookover, and in response from requests from the pub regulars, the coupleapproached Greene King, following the opening of a depot in Tunbridge Wells, bythe Bury St Edmund's regional. It may seem strange today, but back in the late1980’s, GK beers were quite rare in the southeast, and to my palate at least,tasted better than the current offerings. They were also far preferable to thoseof the South Wales Clubs Brewery. Severalyears later, Richard the landlord organised a mini-bus outing to the GK breweryat Bury which, given the current proposed closure of the Westgate Brewery,allowed us to experience the full, art deco splendour of the 1930’s brewhouse.
There was a good mix of customers in the Cabin, as it becameknown including several childless couples the same ages Eileen and me. Two ofthem lived next door to one another, and in a rather strange twist, ended upswapping partners, on a permanent basis. This foursome lived even more local thanus, and not only in the same road as the Cabin, but virtually opposite the pub.As well as drinking in the pub together, we occasionally held dinner parties ateach other’s houses, although all that changed with the arrival of our sonMatthew on the scene, and we slowly lost touch with the group.A poignant reminder came last year, when I received amessage via social media that one of the girls had sadly passed away. I don’t really know the circumstances, surroundingher death, apart from learning that Caz had been living in Norfolk at the time,possibly with a different partner, but a memorial drink had been arranged at UncleTom's Cabin, which by this time had changed its name to the New Drum, in reflectionof its original 19thcentury name, the Drum. Eileen and I went along, Quite a few of the people weused to know, from 30 years ago, turned up to pay their last respects, andexchange memories of Caz who, as we all agreed, was fun and good company to bewith.
It was my first visit to the pub for a long time, and when Isaw the keg only line-up, I knew just how much times had changed. During thefinal years of my acquaintance with it, the Cabin had morphed into more of asports pub, than a place for a social drink, so I wasn’t really surprised at thelack of cask. My reputation has obviously gone before me, as the landlordapologised over the absence of cask, and it was then that I recognised him as theTV sports-mad son of the current owner. Fortunately, the Draught Guinness was quitedrinkable, so it was a case of any port in a storm.Before closing the page on Uncle Tom's Cabin, it’s worthmentioning that the pub was well known for lock-ins. The lights would be dimmed,the curtains closed, and the front door put on the latch. Drinkers were askedto leave quietly, so as not to attract any attention, although I think by thenthe local constabulary had given up trying to catch customers drinking afterhours, so long as there wasn't any trouble.
Sunday lunchtimes were my favourite session, and I wouldhead off with the family dog, and after giving her a good run around the localfields, I would adjourn to the Cabin. After her earlier exertions, the hound wouldlie quietly under the table, whilst I went to get the drinks in. It wasn’t unusualfor me to remain in the pub until about 4pm, and don’t forget this was back inthe day when pubs were officially forced to close in the afternoon. The poochand I would then head for home, to enjoy a nice Sunday roast dinner.Things change of course, and when son Matthew came on thescene, I had to behave myself and not stop out all afternoon. At some stage theCabin changed hands again, following the retirement of Richard and Joan. Furtheralterations were made to the pub’s interior which, whilst making better use ofthe available space, did away with the cosy and comfortable feel of the oldpub.
Today, after nearly 50 years of living in Tonbridge, andeven longer working there, I don't have a local as such. This is primarilybecause the two best pubs in the town, are too far away on foot to count as alocal. It's a 25 minutes’ walk to the Nelson Arms, and 35 minutes’ on foot to Fuggles Beer Café. The former is by far the best traditional pub in Tonbridge, whilst thelatter, as well as stocking four cask ales, offers an amazing choice of craft andinternational beers –many on draught and others in bottles. Both outlets arewell worth visiting, and both attract their own type of clientele. The Nelson crowdis perhaps more local in makeup, whilst Fuggle’s customers are probably more ofa transient one.
It’s just as well I don't live any closer to either of theseexcellent outlets otherwise, I would be spending more time in them and haveeven less time to write this blog. However, I know with more than fair degreeof confidence what to expect in either of them, and I also know that as well asthe ambience and sense of bonhomie, both the Nelson and Fuggles will deliver aninteresting and, at times, unusual choice of beers.

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