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)

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

A modern pub for tourists on a busy roundabout inspires me go loco with commas

At the big roundabout, a sort of traffic island, if you will, there stands the public house Cook Island, which is dedicated to holidaymakers and daytrippers, who we love and hate, don't we?, even though how many of us have never been a holidaymaker?, if you will, where the emphasis is on food, like fish pie with lots of cheese, which people like, I saw them eating it, although I think cheese and fish should not be combined in this reality, it's an opinion, we're allowed them still aren't we?, or did I miss a new law, or a question for Bertrand Russell, or maybe Peter Cook, or a cab driver, or a combination of those people, and children are welcomed with a play area, but children, and I should know, like to use play areas as tactical planning rooms for wider assaults on the adult world, and go in those places like millionaire cigar fiends go in velvet-cloaked airport humidors in balmy south American airports, sunglassed eyes seamy with ruinous missions, maybe we should just lighten up, and maybe stop writing in sentences, let's see how it goes, well, like this, oh, yes, let's keep going a bit more, Cook Island, wasn't it?, and where there is an estate of wooden chalets next door, some of which seemed to be on sale for more than £100,000, which is more than I can afford to spend on a home for my family, like many people, I chortled as I 'tucked in' to my burger, it's always 'tucking in' with food journalists isn't it?, does anyone ever 'tuck in' in real life? apart from at bedtime, when it's vital, particularly in a chilly house, where the ice is inside the windows, a cliche, that once happened to me in my life, to almost misquote Morrissey again, which has happened before during this pub odyssey, so I was 'tucking in' and thinking about these wood palace chalets, and chortling, in a chippy sort of way, and thought is it time for a revolution?, maybe, does my son mind?, no he was plotting in the playroom, he likes throwing knives at the moment, tucking them in to passing innocents, like me, which I do not tolerate at home or in public houses, including in Cook Island, where the building is modern, in my view rather plain, not modernist like stream of consciousness writers, who can get tiresome, if they don't use full stops, people get narked, but anyway, sparking my prejudice against modern pubs, where does it come from, this prejudice?, people are more important than windowframes, you lunatic, although the windowframes didn't seem plastic, phew, I found myself staring, somewhat strangely, in both senses of the word, or maybe more, staring at the main road through a picture of the statue of liberty on the window, again a symbol, in one sense, of revolution, and sipping the Exmoor Ale, which was tasty, correct temperature, and the food was acceptable, and the staff who served it were extremely friendly, if friendliness can be extreme, a terrifying thought, and I started thinking about old Cook swinging around the world, stealing islands, that's what he did, wasn't it?, Cook, or Cookie as he soon became in my mind, as I took a stroll around the chalet estate, old brother Cookie who died 10 years before the storming of the Bastille, you're lucky I'm ending this now, I could go on all night, yes the end comma is deliberate, quite deliberate,

Cook Island, Mullacott Cross, near Ilfracombe, North Devon
Adam's Ale rating: 2 out of 5
Drink this: Exmoor Ale

A peacock gives me the evil eyes in a remote valley where the gilded agers once danced in the dew-flecked gaslight

The peacock seemed to want to get near me.

Maybe the many evil-eyed creature wanted to get me for some mysterious slight, I thought, as I took another mouthful of ale and pretended not to jump when the beast boomed in the late afternoon like a wild boar at slaughter hour.

There is something about close range large birds which makes me think about self defence, and when I'm in the corner of a beer garden in a steep wooded valley in remote North Devon I know full well the air ambulance could take time to get here. And there would be a scene if I had to wrestle the animal.

But the large strolling peacock was not intent on violence. He found a scrap of bread on the ground and fluttered up to a low roof, from where he watched me. We had reached an accommodation.

I already knew a lot about the pub, but not about the peacocks. Advertising and anticipation can ruin, with good reason, any element of well-I-never-did-see in any pub visit. Once you have been told a certain pub is the greatest creation since eden itself, there is little you can do to avoid trying to demolish that assertion. Human nature being what it is - clever, forgiving, rational - you can't help making up your own mind, which always means clawing holes in the well-knit arguments of the advocates...

And so before I even crept down winding high-hedge lanes to a hidden valley between Lynton and Combe Martin, to pay a visit to the Camra North Devon Pub Of The Year, the Hunters (no apostrophe on the sign) Inn, I was already filled with the type of prejudicial thoughts reporters often carry in their heads, but must always discard.

The beards at Camra (I mean it fondly, gentlemen) are rarely wrong about beer quality, but I have been to Camra-loved alehouses (not in the Westcountry) brimming with as much chummy cheer as a pox-riven yacht scoot to Hades, the home of the departed spirits.

The Hunters Inn, the landlord told me, had been the site of an inn for centuries and was once a haunt of the gilded age, before the late-1960s, when the gilded agers decided to go instead to Portugal or Monaco or wherever they went. Then the place became more of a haunt for coachloads of pensioners staying in nearby Ilfracombe. Now, the pub is trying to move "up market" and pull in locals as well as tourists, to avoid becoming an evil theme pub. The inn does everything a "destination pub" does: offers you hot or cold milk or cream with your coffee, rooms, chefs rather than microwaves and spotty teenagers. I was expecting the pub to be posh, but it wasn't; it was pleasingly ordinary. It felt like a proper local pub, which is an achievement, because not many people live in the valley. Maybe they camp in the woods, guerrilla-local style.

Camra was right about the beer: four Exmoor Ales on offer and my pint was too good to drink slowly. Weirdly, I was the only person drinking beer; everyone else (about four or five groups) were drinking tea or coffee. There is something exciting about pubs in odd locations. There is something odd about pubs in exciting locations.

I hadn't been there long and the peacock wanted to get near me again, perhaps as much as I wanted to drink another pint of Exmoor Ale in that beer garden, but the sky had gone old and the trees were closing in.

HUNTERS INN, HEDDON VALLEY

ADAM'S ALE RATING: 4 OUT OF 5

DRINK THIS: EXMOOR ALE, 3.8%

Hunters Inn website

Exmoor Ales

National Trust information about West Exmoor

North Devon Camra pub of the year revealed

A THRIVING North Devon pub in a breathtaking rural idyll — which takes pains to welcome locals as well as holidaymakers — has been named “pub of the year” by real ale campaigners.

The Hunters Inn, which nestles in the Heddon Valley between Exmoor and the Bristol Channel, is this year’s Camra (Campaign For Real Ale) North Devon pub of the year.

Camra spokesman Chris Franks said the pub had won the award because it served consistently good quality ales, with sympathy for local breweries, in a friendly atmosphere. The pub’s staff was also praised for being knowledgeable and providing good service.

When David Orton and his wife, Deborah, bought the Hunters Inn three years ago they were well aware the pub had been a haunt of the wealthy and well-known — as well as more ordinary local folk — for decades. In the 1970s and 1980s, however, as the glamorous people increasingly went abroad for holidays, the inn became less glamorous and relied heavily on coach loads of pensioners staying in nearby Ilfracombe.

David, 38, took on the business while living in the local valley in semi-retirement after a successful career selling televisions and music equipment. The Ortons, who were keen to re-stamp a mark of quality on the inn, have since transformed the pub into a proper local, with numerous music and pub game nights, as well as quality food and accommodation.

The inn has become, to David’s delight, a successful “destination pub” and is likely to cement its success in future years as more people, perhaps conscious of climate-damaging air travel, choose North Devon over more expensive foreign holidays. “The original inn was an old tenant farm,” he told the Journal. “And the farm used to sell ales to the local farmers. It became famous with poets and artists because it is such a beautiful spot. In 1895 the inn burned down and the current building was built on the same site.

“The guestbooks are phenomenal; Thomas Hardy wrote about the pub, members of the royal family have stayed here, as well as people like Ringo Starr and Vaughn Williams. In its 1960s heyday, it was very famous.”

The earlier guestbooks have gone to Lynton museum but their spirit lives on. “Last year we repainted the building in its original Edwardian colour scheme and we have been upgrading the accommodation,” he said.

“Real ale is a passion of mine. When we came here there were just two real ales; we now have eight at any one time. We try to support West Country brewers, including Exmoor Ales.”

The pub even hosts its own beer festival in the second week of September. Families In addition to the history, bucolic setting and real local ales, the pub also boasts a welcoming attitude to families and children and no fewer than three chefs producing anything from chips for hungry walkers to top-class dinner for honeymooners.

While some pubs in North Devon are closing their doors or suffering declining takings, the Hunters Inn’s profits are increasing, perhaps proving claims by Camra that pubs that give the public what they want can still prosper in a recession.

David said: “We have trebled the turnover in three years and that is from the support of local trade. “Everybody who had the inn for the past 30 years concentrated on visitors and you can end up with a theme pub. What makes it fun is local trade and locals will only come if the food and beer is really good and that makes it a good pub.

“We have pool, darts and poker, a jazz band called the Heddon Valley Stumblers, a folk night, a pudding club.” And with all the excellent ale, music, games — and scenery — you might think the Hunters Inn could not sound any more perfect.

Well it can: the pub is open 365 days a year and if you do make the effort to visit — by car, bicycle or foot — you are promised a friendly welcome from a committed landlord who is unlikely to boot you out into the rain when the clock hits 11pm.

From the North Devon Journal.

Watching The Heavens Unfold In The Pub Section As The Future Looks On

Sometimes a pub visit creates a venn diagram of glee, sensation, and nostalgia.

The circle of glee in the diagram comes from your companions and the beer while the circle of sensations are the slow warmth of the alcohol in your blood and the brace of farmfield air when you step outside.

The final circle, of nostalgia, is the thought of the merry drinkers who are now gone, who argued at your ear or at ears like yours, and the afternoons and evenings you have spent ignoring the stale inhuman defeats of money, mortgages and DIY by tilting your hat at the good life.

The glee, sensation and nostalgia circles intersect at The Pub Section. In the Pub Section I found the Chichester Arms in Bishops Tawton, a pub so determined to thrive that it was born again, nine months after a devastating fire in 2005.

I arrived one midweek evening with my wife and baby just as autumn was starting to blow cool through the North Devon countryside. The Chich, as it is popularly known locally to generations of fans, is a dining pub but it has not destroyed its pub DNA in pursuit of the Hungry Belly Pound. It has kept the cosy chaos of all lovely country pubs without being cloyingly twee or phoney.

Indeed, there was some controlled chaos in the kitchen when we arrived; a key player, the chef, I think, was unexpectedly unavailable. But the barman stayed friendly.

I drank two fine pints of Exmoor Ale, as crisp as the dew forming on the hills and I ate a beefburger, regular readers will be astonished to hear. It was superb beef, and was well-cooked, but needed a bit of seasoning.

I took the last few mouthfuls of my final Exmoor Ale outside to look at the stars and the waxing moon, and to inhale some of the frosty nostalgia.

There were few constellations on show, but I saw Cassiopeia and the north star. Cassiopeia was named after the Greek mythological wife of Cepheus, king of Ethiopia, you know; she was sent to the heavens because she bragged about her beauty, hardly a punishment for any crime, including honesty. I managed to find the moon too, without looking at a book. You could spend an hour in a beer garden in the twilight, thinking of venn diagrams, and how many bits of life fit in circles, and go quietly insane.

I had my baby boy in one arm, his eyes like mirrors inside his woolly hood, while his mother finished her dinner in rare peace inside. An almost mythical experience.

My boy was too young for a sip of my beer, although he was "baptised" with ale in his first week of life, and I didn't want to share the magic stuff anyway. But he was not too green, I hoped, to absorb the sense of the dark countryside just out of sight. I was so fixed in the Pub Section, being watched by the future.

THE CHICHESTER ARMS, BISHOPS TAWTON, NORTH DEVON

ADAM'S ALE RATING: 4 OUT OF 5

DRINK THIS: EXMOOR ALE

I see joy at the Williams Arms

The boy is enjoying the first stage of a possibly-extreme love of swings. Other park fancies do not elicit even a glint of recognition, but tuck him into a swing and his eight-month-old being radiates with unparalleled joy. A pub with a good swing - even a bad swing - is good news in any right-minded citizen's mind.

So, we - grandparents, parents, boy, and dog - arrived as an early autumn sun was dying over Braunton; a sublime, crystal evening.

Yes, I drank a pint of Doom Bar (a popular Cornish ale, so apologies for this: I always think it can seem a bit thin, despite its lustrous, ruby-looking, depths).

Yes, I ate a pie containing beef AND sausages (don't ask).

Yes, I admired, Fred Dibnah-style, the neat thatch work.

Yes, the barman did seem a little melancholic.

But all that - beer, pie, sky, grumpy barman - was zilch compared to the boy's glowing delight on the swing in the glorious dusk.

Children improve public houses: discuss.

WILLIAMS ARMS, BRAUNTON, NORTH DEVON

ADAM'S ALE RATING: 7 OUT OF 10

DRINK THIS BEER: DOOM BAR, 4 PER CENT