The Brewers Arms

A couple of years ago I said goodbye to a very special pub.  The Brewers Arms it was called, although the locals knew it by its nickname 'The Clappers'. 

It was built in 1753 as a hostelry and has been open uninterrupted to this day.  It's not easy to find, and without Sat Nav or local knowledge, you wouldn't stand a chance!  It's in deepest East Sussex, in a web of country lanes surrounded by fields, farms and hedgerows. 

The car park doubles up as a paddock and a tractor park!

My decor was somewhat unorthodox!  The public bar (the drinker's room for those not familiar with the English pub layout) was enormous. A cavern of a place with ceilings that almost touched the sky!  From there I suspended a collection of antique cycles, along with lots of ancient wicker baskets and a 200-year-old wheelbarrow. Cleaning

them required your host to climb to the top of an equally old set of wooden steps - feather duster in hand- whilst the floor swayed around several yards below. For some unknown reason, I always felt the urge to perform this hazardous task after partaking in copious quantities of IPA, much to onlookers' horror.

The saloon bar had a more practical ceiling height, and this was adorned with vintage farm implements.  In the restaurant I again continued the theme of ceiling covering, only this time it - and the walls- were completely covered with plates, cups and saucers!

There was also an enormous inglenook fireplace which remained unused, so this was filled with the contents of an old farmhouse kitchen which were given to me.  Add to all this, several hundred paintings and fading photos, and loads of very old books, and I guess you get the picture!  Dust ruled, but that was all part of the charm! Or so I told myself!

During the war, the public bar doubled up as a schoolroom to cope with the increase in kids due to evacuation from London.  Yet many of my locals had been in the village all their lives and had never even visited the wicked city.  

The regulars were a diverse bunch as you can imagine.  Farmers, local crafts folk, tradesmen and an ex-bank robber!  Mix them up with the well healed, the odd lord and lady, and a couple of reclusive celebs and I think you get the picture.  All ages too.  Some not old enough to be drinking, and others old enough to know better.

I could always spot the underage drinkers though because when I rang the bell for last orders, they'd put their chairs up on the tables and go outside to play!  I saw babies take their first steps in my bar, and others their last ones too.  One of my customers sat on the same bench week in, week out, for 80 years.

My pride and joy, however, was my cellar.  Deep underground and said to be haunted, it was dark and full of atmosphere, a constant 15 degrees with a wonderful beery smell that will remain with me forever.

From there I pulled up pints of Greene King IPA, spectacular Speckled Hen and ravishing Ruddles County.  The marvellous Moorland Original and my personal favourite, Abbot Ale.  Add to that a couple of guest ales which changed every couple of weeks.  I think that you can tell that we were THE place to enjoy a pint of frothing real ale, served in a dimpled tankard or a straight thin glass, filled almost to the brim, then topped with a creamy head.

Alongside my real ale portfolio, I grudgingly sold a couple of draft lagers. This was for the benefit of those whose taste buds were not sufficiently sophisticated to appreciate the joys of a proper pint of beer!

Our food was simple and traditional. Ploughman's lunches - crusty chunks of bread with strong cheddar and pickled onions - and steak and kidney pie.  Sausages with bubble and squeak. And my special baked ham, with hand-cut fries and free-range eggs from Mary down the lane. We were always fully booked for our famous Sunday Roasts! 

It could be a bit of a noisy place at times!  I used any excuse to put on live music.   Locals would turn up with a fiddle or a banjo.  Big Al would bash seven bells out of my piano in a performance of boogie-woogie and R&B, rivalling anything you'd hear in town.  

Every now and then, the main drink of the night changed to Guinness because Seamus turned up and entertained us with songs and odes from Ireland which became bawdier as the evening went on.

It is often said that Guinness is one of God's miracles. It goes down as black as coal, and comes out a stream of pure gold!  

I even gave in, and got a Karaoke machine! Unfortunately, I tended to hog it - particularly when I was feeling a little bit merry!

My customers loved their bar games.  Dominoes and crib. Chess, and shut-the-box!  I held quiz nights and video horse racing. There was never a dull moment at the Brewers.  

Every New Years' Eve our fancy dress party was the place to be!

Licencing laws stated that we were supposed to close at eleven. Somehow that didn't really bother us too much, and we tended to go on until everyone

had had their fill. On many an occasion, we'd continue right through the night, and watch the sun come up over the Brewers Field, leaning on the fence with a cup of coffee in hand. On others, we would all adjourn to a neighbour's house and return in the morning for a good old fry up and a 'hair of the dog'.

We loved our outings too! Twice a year we hired a coach, and off we went to the horse races. Stand by Goodwood - the Clappers are on their way!

The biggest night of the year was November 5th - Guy Fawkes night.  For weeks beforehand we would build an enormous bonfire in the Brewers Field.  On the night we would have a torchlight procession around the village with 3 marching bands, ending with one of the biggest firework displays in the county.  The car park was turned into a market of stalls selling crafts, soup, and flashing hats and necklaces.  Beer flowed straight from taps in the barrels, and 2500 people would pack into our tiny village centre.

My lot liked to dance. I had a brilliant sound system which could shake the building to its foundations! There was a special secret way of letting the locals know when I was up for late-night bop. I simply played 'Mambo Number Five' and they knew that Keith was having a party after the strangers had gone home to their cocoa and bed! The heavy curtains would close, the volume wind up and by three in the morning, the party was in full swing. 

Dancers on the floor, on the tables, and even on my precious bar top! 

There is so much more that I could write about the Brewers Arms. Perhaps one day I will.  My only regret is that I had to give it up. 

One February day, my doctor told me that if I didn't change my lifestyle straight away, I'd be lucky to see Christmas. Something had to go, and I preferred it not to be me!

It's all different now. The mountains of bits and pieces have gone. The walls are trendily modern, and the decor is minimalist. The regular drinkers have gone too - driven out by the 'townies' who travel from afar to imbibe fine wines, nibble posh food, and gawp at those funny old country people outside the window.  I returned once and was moved to tears when amid the silence, my head filled with the sounds of those happy reckless days of not so long ago.

I need a drink!