An experience. We have
mentioned in the past the "Front Room" analogy
that pubs present us with, where friendly, intimate
pubs warmed by a roaring fire and populated by locals
can often seem like someone's front room. We may even
be guilty of bandying it about rather more than the
analogy can strictly stand.
Well, make no
mistake: this is someone's front
room, with newspapers strewn around and a small home-made
bar on the corner. They do not just have a pub and
live upstairs, this pub is their home, and they live
in the bar. I expected to trip over his slippers on
my way in, to find a half-read book turned face down,
to say hello to his dog, to pick up the paper he just
read. Most of these things we actually did too.
I did a little research.
Ralph and Pat Daykin have been at the Victoria Arms
since October 1956, by far the longest serving licensees
in the Dales, if not England, and are renowned throughout
the whole of the North Riding. The Daykins are a Dales
family originally from Gunnerside 'over t'hill'. Their
family history can be traced back to at least the
1500s and there has always been a 'Ralph' in the family.
There should be a 'Ralph' in everyone's family. The
Victoria Arms is a reminder of days gone by, a time
when country inns were a place where locals and travelers
could enjoy good local ale in the comfort of the landlord's
own home. They could kick off their boots, sidle up
to the fire and pet the family dog. You still can.
This pub still has the
rough feel of its origins, when a person's regular
income would be supplemented by having a small outlet
for various forms of alcohol. The Victoria Arms is
one of the last surviving examples of a truly personal,
individual pub, unsullied by corporations. It is an
absolute gem for pub-lovers, but not for those who
have become accustomed to the restaurant style of
some of today's business pubs. This is decidedly and
doggedly personal. You can buy a butty, but nowt else.
If you have a friend who
loves pubs, bring them here. If you have a friend
who loves "quaint" and "charming"
pubs, take them somewhere else. The Falkland Arms
maybe, or the Rose & Crown. Safe bets. We made
the mistake some years back, of going to a pub in
Grasmere, Cumbria, with just such a friend. Great
friend, but a little too proper for the occasion.
We put our heads around the door: Roaring fireplace,
no less than six feet floor to mantle; farmers standing
against the bar; mud-spattered sheepdogs laid out
on the stone floor. Nirvana! But no, we could not
possibly stop there, we will disturb the farmers….
Argh!
Ralph was reclined in his
chair by a roaring fire when we wandered in. As we
took our muddy boots off, we were told not to bother.
"Sometimes its muddier in here than out there!"
Pat declared.
The beer? Ah, Black Sheep!
Need I say more? I will say that the perennial yardstick,
the condition of the cider, proved that for all the
rough edges, Ralph & Pat run a fine establishment.
The walls are
covered in all kinds of stuff. Golf clubs, old bank
notes, prizes from Hawes Farmers Auction Mart, a trumpet,
pictures, some paintings, old miner's lamps, laughing
Santas and so on. There is also a civic side to Ralph:
He is the President of the North Riding Dales Licensed
Victuallers Association, the Wensleydale Gun Club
and on the committee of the Wensleydale Angling Club,
so we must have caught him reclining during one of
his rare rests.
The residents of the Dales,
or Dales Folk, speak plainly and economically. They
will not invite you to dinner unless they genuinely
mean to extend a real invitation. More often, they
will simply not invite you, unless they have gotten
to know you over the course of say three or four years.
But trust a Yorkshireman.
They mean what they say, on those rare occasions they
actually say anything. Ask a question, and you can
expect an honest answer, even though the answer will
be lacking in embellishment.
Many years ago when I was
privileged enough to work on a Dales farm, I was taking
a break with my employer, leaning against a five-bar
gate, sharing no conversation whatsoever, when this
salesman drove in to the yard in his fancy car.
Immediately a sheepdog
streaked out of the barn and across the cobbles towards
the alarmed salesman. The poor young man wound the
window down a crack, and said, in what I was sure
was an Eton accent, "I say old chap, will you
dog bite me?"
The farmer moved his pipe
from one side of his mouth to the other, drew breath
and with an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders,
said, "Ah reckon not". So the salesman gingerly
opened his door and stepped out, whereupon the dog
promptly bit him on the leg.
"I thought you said
your dog would not bite me!!!" shrieked the salesman.
The farmer eyed him up, shifted weight, nodded slightly
and with what I swear was a twinkle in his eye, said,
"Not my dog".
I like the people in Yorkshire.
While it is always incorrect to label any group of
people as preferable to another, because there is
good and bad everywhere, I can still speak in broad,
crass generalizations by saying that I am more comfortable
around Yorkshire folk than any other identifiable
geographical group in England. They will take their
time over warming to you, and barely acknowledge your
departure, but you can always expect a genuine warm
welcome whenever you return.
