I pushed open the door to find a little bar, entirely lit by candles (though it was still too dark for me to count the coins in my hand). It was like walking into some family’s front room a hundred years ago: unfortunately a rather dull and slow-witted family. There were no tables, just chairs. I had a pint of pale ale (not dispensed from the beer pumps on the marble bar-top, but from barrels on the floor) and asked if I could kip in the car-park: no problem.
Including the landlord and me, there were just six people in the pub. Two elderly women sat in one corner; one of them was asleep, the other dozed fitfully. Two old guys sat either side of the fire, discussing the pressing issues of the day: the damp conditions of the fields, the pleasures of dog ownership and what they’ll be having for Christmas dinner (turkey was the unanimous choice, unsurprisingly). One mentioned his grandchildren; the other guy trumped him with tales of his great-grandchidren. I felt I’d dropped in on a rehearsal of some Pinteresque play. For my next pint I moved on to the stronger beer, hoping it would make the conversation sound more interesting. It didn’t; I settled for an early night.
I’m intrigued by the place, though, and may call in again. The bar itself was warm and welcoming, full of nicknacks and what my book calls ‘World War II memorabilia’. ‘Memorabilia’ suggests that someone has put the cuttings on display recently, to recall wartime events, whereas the faded, yellow cuttings look like they’d been put up during the war, and they’re still there because no-one had bothered to take them down in the intervening years. The candles seemed to create more shadows than light: the chiaroscuro you find in Rembrandt portraits. I’d love to photograph the scene… though I’d settle for a pint or two, drawn straight from the barrel, and some stimulating conversation…
Whitstable...
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