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)