We had to persist to find the Barley Mow. We had tried a couple of roads in Clifton Hampden without finding it, and we were now in a residential area, clearly not the setting for a pub. The last option was across a one-lane bridge with traffic-control stoplights.
A sudden insight. The Barley Mow shared history with Jerome K. Jerome’s book, Three Men in a Boat, about his time on the Thames. The bridge crossed the Thames. So did we, and found the Barley Mow, lauded by Jerome as the “quaintest most old world inn on the river.” Established in 1352, it has a thatched roof, latticed windows, and a large fireplace, perfect for a pub.
We sat on a bench in the bar, front row seats to watch Chris, the publican, do his dance, pumping the tap, stopping the flow just as the brew head hit the rim, uncorking the wine, taking the food orders. He was gracious, humorous, and efficient. He seemed to know most of his customers.
Across from us sat a couple our age, their Golden Retriever on a leash at their feet. The publican brought the dog a treat or two. We surmised that the couple were regulars who had walked to the pub for dinner and that, in petting the puppy, the publican was greeting another old friend.
Two middle-aged men came to the bar and ordered their pints. They sat at a table beside us and reviewed the events of their days. When the pints were drained, they ordered another. One of the charms of the pub is that the customer orders everything at the bar. The wait staff delivers the food but ordering requires getting out of your seat and interacting with the publican.
Behind us was a family group of ten, ages ranging from six to seventy. Their dog lay quietly beside their table, too. They were surely there for a special celebration, a birthday perhaps. It would be natural, if one’s house were smallish which, it seems, most English cottages are, to go to the local gathering spot for celebrations.
From out in the garden came two young girls in summer frocks, sensibly dressed for the 86 degree, humid weather. They chatted with one of the wait staff and, from what little I could hear, seemed to be talking in a familiar way about something—perhaps the school term just over—one of the girls had just finished. Laughter from the tables in the garden, less hot now because the sun was lower in the sky, accompanied the girls to the bar.
About then, we began to hum “where everybody knows your name,” compared the publican to Sam Malone, and expected Cliff and Norm to show up any time. What a comfortable, embracing place this was. Even we, sitting on the same bench for the second night in a row, having ordered the same bowl of vegetables topped by a meat or fish of one’s choice, enjoying libations associated with pubs, felt how the Barley Mow could be a home away from home for folks in the surrounding communities.
People of a Certain Age, don’t we all need places like the Barley Mow where the ambience is relaxing, the “feel” reassuring, the people old friends or friends in the making? Doesn’t it help if the setting is ideal, matching the picture in our heads of where our community would naturally meet? Don’t we as a nation of rugged individuals actually crave community and a sense of belonging?
After dinner the second night, we chatted up Chris. We noticed a corporation’s name on the sign outside, above the pub’s name. Yes, the publican said, the pub is one of 2000 owned by Green and King, the largest beer maker in England. Yes, he was the pub’s manager as an employee of Green and King with all of the appropriate worker benefits. Yes, the menu was more or less standard for Green and King pubs, and yes, most of the beers on tap were made by Green and King.
No, he said, not many independent pubs have survived in England. What independent publican could replicate the benefits package from Green and King? How many could survive if catering only to the locals? Purchasing was less expensive because of bulk and economies of scale. The Barley Mow was not a franchise operation, like McDonald’s. It was an outlet of the parent corporation that took the profit.
Well, that will take the romance right out of a fantasy. Corporate Britain wins again.
Except.
The feel was real. The welcoming good humor of Chris was genuine. The couple with the dog was actually on one of the long boats traveling up river; this was their first time ever at the Barley Mow. But the biscuit was just as delicious for the dog. And those two girls in summer frocks and the two blokes dissecting the day over their pints, and our delicious dinners and the good beer—none of that was fake.
This is not 1352. With times, forms have changed. There are 2000 pubs owned by the corporation because the corporation has figured out how to keep the pubs profitable so that they remain a staple of English life.
What has not changed is that it takes people to create communities and other people to create circumstances and settings where communities can thrive. So we can be grateful that somebody makes it possible for the Barley Mow to be across the bridge for us to find, and in which to lift a pint to our newly-found favorite pub.
Daniel E. White
July 3, 2017