The woman behind the bar looks a bit confused. "How did these get here?" she asks, pointing at the clean plate and pint glass resting in front of her.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
One of the drinkers looks up. "Oh, sorry love, that's me – I had a takeaway last night."
"Right you are," she says, grabbing the glass and plate and stacking them back on the shelf behind her.
I have to laugh. The guy had a "takeaway", meaning he'd come into the pub the night before, ordered a meal and a pint of beer, scooped them up and walked home to consume them in the comfort of his lounge room, no doubt while watching Hollyoaks or Neighbours. It was a Friday night, after all.
Obviously this takeaway thing happens regularly, given the bartender doesn't seem in the least surprised that the bloke has kindly washed up his dishes and returned them to the pub the next night. I guess in a town of about 400 people you'd soon figure out who'd been nicking the plates and pint glasses.
And so, that small mystery resolved, the pub goes back to its normal routine. The blokes by the bar keep chatting. The dog curls itself back up on the couch by the fire. The family goes back to its roast dinner. The lady behind the bar goes back to pulling the long handles of the ale pumps and chatting to the punters around her.
This same scene has probably been playing out in this pub for hundreds of years. It's a beautiful old stone place – the Jolly Farmer in Leavening, North Yorkshire – that is as much a part of the local community as the church or the football field.
There's nothing special about the Jolly Farmer; but then, that's what makes it special. This is what counts as normal around here. It's a cosy little place that the locals treat as an extension of their lounge room, where a blackboard in the corner has community notices on it, where dogs seem just as comfortable as patrons, where the contents of the "game pie" on the small menu depends on what the chef has managed to shoot in the last few days.
I love it. I want the Jolly Farmer to be my local. I want to be able to take food and a pint home when I don't feel like cooking. I want to hang out with these people and their dogs by the open fire on cold nights.
This is the fourth pub I've been to like this in the last four nights. This trip has turned into something of a Northern English pub crawl – I've been to the Duncombe Arms in Ellastone, the Old Dog in Thorpe, and the Buck Inn in Buckden. Each place has been chosen at random and has turned out to contain the same friendly locals, the same warm atmosphere. No pokies. No dramas.
I knew this would be the case, too. I knew English country pubs would be amazing, that they'd be quaint and charming and friendly, because anyone who has ever set foot in the UK could tell you that. I'm hardly the first to discover it.
But this is something I've realised about travelling: it doesn't matter if you already know things. It doesn't matter if you've read about a place, or been told about something, or just have it as assumed knowledge. The thrill of personal discovery is unchanged.
You might have heard that the Taj Mahal is amazing, but that won't temper your thrill in seeing it in the flesh. You might already know that the food in Japan is incredible, but that doesn't mean it will taste any blander when you arrive. A million tourists might have done all of these things before you, but that makes no difference whatsoever to the feeling you get in experiencing it for yourself.
British pubs are great. No kidding. Everyone knows that. But that doesn't mean I haven't been buzzing with excitement every time I've swung open the old doors to find a room full of people drinking pints of real ale and eating bangers and mash and shuffling over on big couches to make room for their pets.
That doesn't mean I'm not completely enamoured with this idea of a country pub that's as much community meeting place as it is dispenser of booze.
Unfortunately I'm staying too far away from the Jolly Farmer to experience the greatness of a takeaway pint of beer and a meal, so instead I have to settle for a table by the open fire and a dine-in sampling of the four hand-pulled real ales they have available tonight, and the mystery game pie.
It's not a bad compromise. At least I won't have to wash my own dishes.
Instagram: instagram.com/bengroundwater
See also: Holiday destinations where you can't drink
