Well-Born.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

Although I knew they’d laid him low, thrashed him, hung him out to dry,

Had tortured him with water and with fire, then dashed his brains out on a stone,

I saw him in the Seven Stars, and in the Plough.

I saw him in the Crescent Moon and in the Beehive.

In the Barley Mow, my Green Man, newly born, alive, John Barleycorn.

I saw him seasonally, at harvest time, in the Wheatsheaf and the Load of Hay,

I saw him, heard his laughter in the Star and Garter and the Fountain and the Bell,

The Corn Dolly, the Woolpack and the Flowing Spring.

I saw him in the Rising Sun, the Moon and Sixpence and the Evening Star.

I saw him in the Rose and Crown, my Green Man, ancient, barely born, John Barleycorn.

He moved through Britain, bright and dark, like ale in glass.

I saw him run across the fields, towards the Gamekeeper, the Poacher and the Blacksmith’s Arms.

He knew the Ram, the Lamb, the Lion and the Swan,

White Hart, Blue Bull, Red Dragon, Fox and Hounds.

I saw him in the Three Goats’ Heads, the Black Bull and Dun Cow, Shoulder of Mutton, Griffin, Unicorn.

Green Man, beer-born, good health, long life, John Barleycorn.

I saw him festively, when people sang for victory, for love and New Year’s Eve,

In the Raven and the Bird in Hand, the Golden Eagle, the Kingfisher, the Dove.

I saw him grieve and mourn, a shadow at the bar, in the Falcon, the Marsh Harrier,

The Sparrowhawk, the Barn Owl, Cuckoo, Heron, Nightingale.

A pint of bitter in the Jenny Wren for my Green Man, alone, forlorn, John Barleycorn.

Britain’s soul, as the crow flies, so flew he.

I saw him in the Holly Bush, the Yew Tree, the Royal Oak, the Ivy Bush, the Linden.

I saw him in the Forester, the Woodman.

He history: I saw him in the Wellington, the Nelson, Marquis of Granby, Wicked Lady, Bishop’s Finger.

I saw him in the Ship, the Golden Fleece, the Flask

The Railway Inn, the Robin Hood and Little John.

My Green Man, legend-strong, reborn, John Barleycorn.

Scythed down, he crawled, knelt, stood.

I saw him in the Crow, Newt, Stag, all weathers, noon or night.

I saw him in the Feathers, Salutation, Navigation, Knot, the Bricklayer’s Arms, Hop Inn, the Maypole and the Regiment, the Horse and Groom, the Dog and Duck, the Flag.

And where he supped the past lived still.

And where he sipped the glass brimmed full.

He was in the King’s Head and Queen’s Arms. I saw him there:

Green Man, well-born, spellbound, charming one, John Barleycorn.

Carol Ann Duffy

Pub.

At the pub pic.twitter.com/oA7GrEn3MD

— Conor Lynch (@c_k_lynch) January 14, 2025

Chasing.

The peaceful possibilities of the pint ...

And so we return to the pub. One night, that happened to have been my penultimate, we took in the village. While the English village in these times is little more than a retirement home cross-pollinated with a pleasant nursery, it once served an interesting role in congruence with the country house. It was the tandem of rural life, the village offered workers and the big house offered work. Not all of the landed gentry were kind to, or willing to fraternise with, the villagers, but for my unnamed hosts it was an obligation; noblesse oblige, as it were.

It was in this pub, so identical to that of the East India Club, that all distinctions of class vanished, and rich man drank with poor. They hunted together and they drank together; while it is entirely possible that the ancestors of one were tenants of the other’s ancestors. I spoke little that night, for I could only observe. I don't think I said more than a few words, mostly 'please' and 'thank you'.

The night ended with a chorus of laughter, over some joke I have since forgotten. While I looked on and beamed, an older chap, who I was sitting next to, leaned over and addressed me.

"They're a good lot," he said. "Keep them around." 

Alas, I did not heed his words. And while I never fell out with my unnamed friend, life pulled us in different directions. Lockdown made islands of us all, and some of us stayed that way. He lives abroad now, America I think. The last messages we exchanged were for the wishing of a happy Christmas, in 2019. As I took my seat in the car, alongside my fellow tourists, and Amorley was driven out of view, I knew that I would never return, and should never return; for my week there was so perfect, that I could never hope to recreate it. If I was to, then I'd become a tragedian junkie, forever chasing that first high with a greater and greater dose.

Together.

Pubs are as important to the cultural fabric of this nation as churches. The pub and the church will often be the oldest buildings in a village, and the only two places that still draw the community together after hundreds of years. I wince when I see a historic-looking pub that has closed down in a small place. It's like pulling the heart out of a village.

CONNECT