I am asked to leave...

There is nothing large or smart about being barred from a public house. I was once told never to darken the doors ever again of a certain pub in Lancashire after I mistakenly disputed a bar bill which contained apparent evidence of the consumption of a number of pints of ale, not to mention single malt whisky chasers and fine Cuban cigars. Even now, I'm not entirely sure who had consumed all those drinks and smokes, but there certainly was a collection of empty glasses on our table and a number of cellophane cigar wrappers in our ashtray. And I think we were smoking cigars. Either way, I was a youth, roaring drunk, and certain of my case. In short, I was being an arse. I had to leave. There is nothing big or clever about being barred from a public house.

I imagine that most of the people who are barred from pubs fully deserve their sanction.

I'm thinking of the sort of wiry fellows who like to fill their veins with super-lunatic lager on match days before stripping to the waist and throwing metal shop signs through a high street window. I saw that happen once. Or the sort of lethal fool who throws glasses. A New Labour politician might say something like: "These people have no place in the pubs of our dreams, only the inns of our nightmares." I can, for once, only agree.

Anyway, I was asked to leave a pub the other night.

Not because I was violent or abusive or so shot I couldn't breathe properly. No. I was asked to leave a pub for...

...training!

That's right: training.

I was in the beer garden of the Tarka Inn, which is on the main road between Braunton and Barnstaple, one fine recent Sunday evening having a pint with my father; I only see him about once a year because he lives "upcountry", as they say around here.

The beer was good at the Tarka, the sun was still beaming away and I had only just started to explain my intensely fascinating architectural analysis of the Tarka Inn's castle-like squat dominance by the Taw estuary and the relative merits of a benignly-neglected country local compared to a corporate tourist pub when a young lad in a smart shirt came outside and said we had time for a quick last pint because they were closing. It was about 9pm. I asked the barman why they were closing and he said: "For staff training".

We weren't bovvered about being asked to leave the pub restaurant (which is owned by the chain Vintage Inns), even if it was "for training", it was just a new experience. Superb pint of Timothy Taylor, by the way.

The Tarka Inn, Heanton, North Devon

Adam's Ale Rating: 2 out of 5

Drink This: Timothy Taylor (if it's on)

Tributes for North Devon landlord

Tributes have been paid to a former Torrington landlord and community stalwart. John Boyd, known as Jack in the town, died on Monday May 18 aged 80. You can read an obituary here: http://www.thisisnorthdevon.co.uk/news/Death-landlord-Admiral-Vernon/article-1044773-detail/article.html

Tributes for North Devon landlord

Tributes have been paid to a former Torrington landlord and community stalwart. John Boyd, known as Jack in the town, died on Monday May 18 aged 80.

http://www.thisisnorthdevon.co.uk/news/Death-landlord-Admiral-Vernon/article-1044773-detail/article.html

I am mysteriously rewarded after attending a bingo night

I was only half-concentrating on my bingo sheet when I felt an urgent little tug on my shirt sleeve.

I glanced away from the tugger and looked at the next table, where a burly fellow with a Midlands accent and a girly drink (Barcadi Breezer) lifted his eyes from his bingo sheet, which seemed tragically bereft of crossed-out numbers, and looked at me as if I had kicked his favourite springer spaniel in the face.

Dangling my Biro of fate in my hot hand, I realised the whole packed-out holiday camp hall had stopped its tense muttering and was basking in a shared semi-drunken state of nervous silence. The melancholic remains of a blown dandelion clock hung in the late-evening air by the doorway, buffeted to stillness by the heat of contest rising from the bingo tribe.

Another tug on my shirt sleeve. Yes, yes, yes, I muttered...I had...won, won, won my companion was telling me. Here! A winner! Then she was waving my bingo sheet in the air and screaming "over here! over here!" at the young girl who was calling out the numbers on the stage.

The harassed girl walked down from behind her digital number machine to assess my claim of victory. Feeling I was an unworthy winner, partly because of my lack of love for the game of bingo and partly because I wasn't actually on holiday at the camp, I drained the final mouthful of a very average pint of Guinness.

Yes, there was bingo, a woman dressed as a giant beachball, and lots of screaming, running-about children, but no real ale on offer at the bar of the Golden Coast holiday camp near Woolacombe that day. Everyone was enjoying themselves, of course, and it's a splendid place to go on holiday, but I needed to celebrate my win with something reeking of the green growth of North Devon hedgerows, of hops, malt and, perhaps, the finest brewing genius known to the modern age. So, after collecting my £30 bingo winnings, and checking over my shoulder for bitter losers, I repaired to the nearby pub.

It was good to get away from the blaring disco in to the cooling North Devon early summer dusk and it was only a few minutes stroll to The Old Mill, which is in the peculiar position of being a bone fide 17th century pub all but inside a modern holiday camp on the Butlin's model. I couldn't resist walking a bit further up the lane first, just to look at the hedgerows exploding with complex life. I briefly contemplated fleeing to Benidorm with my bingo winnings, but thought better of it.

The Old Mill, large and rambling, is pleasingly ordinary inside; no signs of anxious modernisation or domestication (silly bits of twigs in designer vases were absent, praise be). It is certainly a Tourism Pub, but that isn't always a Bad Thing, although we had eaten at the pub the previous day and the food, I have to say, was lacking in quality or inspiration. What about the beer?

I took my pint of Lundy Gold, made by the Wizard Brewery in Ilfracombe, up to the "top" beer garden, away from the monkey enclosure (or "children's play area" as some people insist on calling it), all the better to take in the sun dappled pastures on the horizon. I wasn't desperate for peace and quiet, like some kind of No Ball Games killjoy, which is a good job because I was sat under a tree bristling with a large and precarious-looking nest of young squawky birds (tell me if this gets too technical, any naturalists among you). Meanwhile, down in the "lower" beer garden a smart woman was crooning along to a backing CD, but not in an offensive "I'm Whitney Houston" way, so I was mostly able to ignore her.

At first, the boy stayed asleep in his pram. It had been a manic day, what with all the swimming, dancing, trying to leap down stairs-ing and frightening parents-ing, and then the unforgiving pride of having a bingo winner for a father. But as I took my second sip of Lundy Gold the boy started to make the time honoured "Father, are you enjoying a moment of reflection with a pint of fine ale?" pram moan.

I don't think it was just the sunshine making me think that that Lundy Gold was one of the best pints of beer I have ever tasted. Wizard are punching well above their weight when it comes to quality and taste inspiration; the brew was light, bitter, refreshing, and clean tasting; it had just enough bite but didn't feel too tangy, knockout and lager-y like some similar beers. I immediately wanted to drink at least three more pints and wait for the bats to come out, but the "Father, are you enjoying a moment of reflection with a pint of fine ale?" pram moan became insistent and we had to leave.

Back at the camp hall, my bingo companions were enjoying a nightcap and the disco was in a full handclap mania, but the boy needed to go to bed so we couldn't stay and listen to the Gummy Bear Song again (is the excuse I used to flee the hideous clatter).

All the noise overload started me thinking about the noises of pubs in general: the "shhh, your bloody drink is coming" of the pump, the swish of a man escaping his duty to replace a spilled three-quarter full pint, the harumph of the real ale snob...

I want the pub to be an ageless refuge from the hum and humdrum of work and duty, a place where we can watch the sky and wait for the bats, or have a pointless argument about politics or cricket or what counts as a "girly drink", because, in the end, I claim, we all need space, man. Which is why I'm writing this blog post in the front passenger seat of my car, in my garage.

The Old Mill, Woolacombe

Adam's Ale Rating: 3 out of 5 (loses a point for average food)

Drink This: Anything by the Wizard brewery or Exmoor Ale

ALE FLASH! Country Pub Re-Opens...

A 12th Century pub near Bideford has re-opened after being closed for two years. The Bell Inn in Monkleigh has opened under the new management of Jackie Daniels, 45, the former owner of the Green Dragon in Langtree.