Saturday pubs

Whitelock’s Ale House, Leeds

Thursday afternoon at Whitelock’s in Leeds, crowded, voices arcing through the air, some like the imagined growl of pirates, others as individual as the clasp of a hand around a pint of stout. 

— Becky died instantly, cheers pal, excuse me flower —

I engage in the tradition of vertical drinking at the long bar, its polished copper top gleaming like a much-loved child on Christmas morning, while the well-polished glasses standing on shelves at the mirrored back bar add to the impression that this is very much a glittering palace of beer. There’s an urgency about the way beers are being ordered. 

— pint of Guinness please and a Kirkstall Pale Ale — 

I’m indebted to Yorkshire classics with a pint of Landlord followed by one of Old Peculier, along with a side helping of Thomas Hardy’s Ale (rich and contemptuous in the way it parades the sin of strength). Outside in the narrow yard where hanging lights are bright and shining onto the hardy drinkers sitting at benches, the gloom of a late autumnal afternoon is gathering like a conclave of cardinals ready to prey on those who ignore their multitude of faults. But back inside all is warm and crystalline, as we squeeze in at the bar, suits and jeans with turn-ups, padded jackets, fake fur coats and the stridency of telling a good story 

— my grandma died when I was 15, she was born in 1887 I knew her really well, she went in 1995, I’ll get the first one — 

The constant slam of the front door as people pour in from the cold crisp afternoon, coloured glass panes in the pub windows, a mirrored column at the bar counter next to where I stand and scribble. A woman with two half-pint glasses of mulled wine asks me what I am doing and how you don’t see people writing anything anymore. I tell her and add that I am a writer and show her a copy of my book and she tells me that she was in Barcelona the previous weekend and got wankered (her word) on red wine. Her partner stands there with a pint of Veltins, patiently waiting. The mirrors on the column next to where I stand have advertising messages, one of which enjoins me to try the pub’s soup. 

—  I’ve put a new barrel on — 

The Thomas Hardy has a slight hint of umami on the nose followed by dried fruit, rich malt, while there is a smoothness on the palate that integrates well with the fruitiness and fieriness of the alcohol. And as I finished my beer and prepared to head out to Amity Brewery for a book event I recalled my last visit to Whitelock’s, after which I wrote in A Pub For All Seasons, ‘Whitelock’s was a joyful hybrid of party animal and wise old sage, stroked by a venerability and an ornate interior of floral tiling, shiny copper bar topping and a general sense of warmth and cosiness, which on this grimy spring night was a welcome home’.

— I love this place —

Shameless plug: my latest book A Pub For All Seasons is now available (Headline).