The Royal Oak (with apologies to George Orwell)

Shortly after the Second World War, George Orwell wrote a paean to his ideal London pub, in an essay called The Moon Under Water. The titular tavern did not exist - it was a composite, a fantasy, a dream. But Orwell described it beautifully and memorably all the same. 

I rather fancied trying my own hand at a similar exercise, focusing on a rural inn, especially in these strange days of shuttered pubs and social distancing. So here it is - The Royal Oak...

The Royal Oak is a little outside the centre of the village, within walking distance of any house in the parish. It sits just beyond a small but picturesque area of woodland that screens out most of the traffic noise from the annoyingly busy main street. It is set back from a quiet and little-frequented road, a few steps up, with a tidily-kept lawn at the front. In spring and summer this lawn is set with wooden picnic benches.

In appearance the pub rather resembles a large private house. It is a somewhat low building, with two storeys, built in good old Georgian brick. There is a fine broad chimney, somewhat newer than the rest of the building; its predecessor failed to withstand a storm in the year Queen Victoria died.   

The sign, painted in the traditional style by the landlord’s brother-in-law (a local character and minor artist), is rather old now. No-one is quite sure where the name comes from, as this was always Roundhead country in the Civil War. The landlord himself, a friendly cove named Mick, will tell you in confidential tones that Charles II seduced the barmaid during his escape to France. You should smile knowingly at this, and not check the faded map of Britain that hangs over the mantelpiece to see whether you are on any plausible route from Worcester to Brighton. Once Mick has seen you a few times, he will remember your name, and most likely your preferred pint, your football team, your state of health and any domestic or professional difficulties that you may be encountering.

The atmosphere inside is convivial, but not noisy; well-behaved, but not formal or mannered. The lighting is low and tasteful, with uplighters used to subdue the brightness of the bulbs. There is plenty of space. Partitioned areas allow for private discussion or cosy intimacy, and contain small reading lamps for those who wish to hunker down with a book. There are exposed beams in the ceiling, with hops hanging from small hooks, and the walls are covered with old maps of the district and oil paintings of the local Hunt. Framed newspaper cuttings, some from eighty or ninety years ago, boast of the exploits of individuals from the neighbourhood. Here a professional footballer who won the FA Cup, there a village lad who won a scholarship to Cambridge last year, and next to them both the Battle of Britain fighter pilot, grinning in front of his Spitfire. From October to March there is generally a log fire crackling in the big fireplace. The flagstones on the floor are covered here and there with old rugs. Children are welcome, but everyone understands the implicit quid pro quo that they not be allowed to run riot.  

The regulars tend to sit at the bar, and occasionally flirt harmlessly with the barmaid Sophie, a cheerful young woman with strongly held and carefully reasoned opinions about poetry and art. The exception is old Ken, who fought in Korea and Malaya, and likes to sit by the hearth with his copy of the Telegraph. Otherwise people sit where they like, whether at tables or in one of the large elderly armchairs or in the semi-circular window seats. You will find a dartboard tucked away in one corner, and in another a shelf of books, an informal lending library with everything from Agatha Christie to French philosophy. There is no piped music, and no TV, but there is karaoke once a month and Mick brings out a flatscreen for home Test matches and the World Cup. From time to time a spontaneous sing-song breaks out, and at Christmas the church choir sing carols.

On Thursdays, just after nine o’clock, the vicar and one of his churchwardens will come in, as the bellringers have finished their practice in the church over the road. The vicar will buy you a drink – cask ale or bitter or stout, brewed only two miles away – and, having gathered that you are interested in local legend, will tell you about old Mrs Wilson, who died a few years ago at the age of 102, and always insisted that her great-uncle was the true King of England, descended as he was from the barmaid who encountered the Merrie Monarch.

The beer is excellent. If you prefer, you can have it served in a dimpled mug rather than a straight glass. June and July are especially pleasant months to visit. On a Saturday afternoon in the high summer you can take your drink into the garden behind the pub, and if you wish, watch the village cricket team over the low stone wall. Later the team will come in to celebrate, or to drown their sorrows. They might get a little boisterous towards closing time but Mick, who was in the Army, can keep them in line. When there is no cricket, or if cricket is not in your line, you can watch the birds and the squirrels in the trees, or enjoy the owls hooting at nightfall.

Come in December, and the pub will be splendidly decked out in Christmas lights, and Mick’s own punch will help you keep the cold out. He makes a point of having the fire well banked up, and lays on free mulled wine on Christmas Eve.

You can order food at The Royal Oak, good solid pub fare like steak and chips. But it remains very much a pub that serves food, not a restaurant with a bar attached. For this reason there is not a huge amount of passing trade, nor do people drive from miles around to spend an evening there. The pub’s core clientele is locals, of whom there are seven or eight hundred, plus walkers coming down from the hills, whose earnestness and good conversation can be relied upon to maintain the pleasant ambience.

It only remains to say: if you ever find The Royal Oak, let me know. It may of course be masquerading under another name.