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Growing Up In Feltwell in the 1950s & 60s – Part – 17. Pubs & Clubs
While post-war 1950s austerity was swept away by the vibrant consumerism of the brash, bright 1960s; most village pubs experienced a steady decline during these times. A gradual tightening of the drink driving laws throughout the 1960s had its effect but television was the main cause. There had been a surge in TV set ownership for the Coronation in 1953 but the real growth occurred in the late 50s and early 60s when grey, “snowy” 12 inch screens were superseded by larger, clearer screens: by the 1960s a 21-inch set was something of a status symbol. Our primary school form teacher Mr Feltwell, had assured us that men visited the local pub primarily for the social interaction rather than a desire to consume alcohol. That was probably true but it was soon clear that people preferred the swish entertainment on television to mere social contact. Once those regular customers whom you relied upon for good company and raising a smile, stayed away from your pub; there was even less reason for you to venture out on a cold evening.
In the early sixties keg beer became the norm and real ale all but disappeared. The shiny keg barrels and their names – Watneys Red Barrel and Whitbread Tankard seemed to fit in with the pervading feeling of modernity and at first were accepted with little resistance. Going to the Royal Norfolk Show in 1968 we stopped at a pub a few miles from the Colney Showground where Whitbread Starlight was on offer at 1/10d a pint (less than 10p). It was probably the weakest flavoured beer I have ever tasted. I found this on a website recently: “This beer was so weak that a Sunday Mirror investigation found that it could have been legally sold in the USA under Prohibition!” Most pubs charged between 2/- and 2/6d a pint then. Gradually of course the campaign for real ale did gather momentum, producing the many micro-brewery craft beers we have today. But other than a bag of crisps, there was little in the way of food on sale until the late 60s. The time when people ate out on a frequent or even occasional basis was yet to arrive and importantly, so was the micro-wave oven.
The Crown and The Cock were Steward & Patteson pubs, old buildings with rather cramped accommodation which reeked of stale beer and tobacco smoke when you walked past, especially when their doors were wide open on a sunny summer’s day. I was familiar with The Crown from an early age because of its proximity to Munson’s Place and my errands to collect the odd light ale for mum. I got to know the gravelly voices of Charlie and May Vale and in 1960 my mother volunteered me to walk Major, their docile and rather overweight old mongrel, after school. He was a long haired black, gold and white Labrador-collie cross I think. Never any trouble, he did much to help me overcome my early fear of dogs; I don’t think I ever heard him bark. Returning him via the empty gravel yard (where some customers would park on Sunday afternoons if they preferred their car not to be visible outside for the duration), I was always fascinated by the masses of different coloured beer-bottle crown-tops littering the gravel – red, blue, gold, green, yellow etc. It was hard to see how they could be left there: beer was mainly served from the barrels in the tap room and what bottles were opened by the pub would be opened inside; no-one sat outside to drink. I would open the door and call out to May and Charlie out of sight in their little kitchen and one of them would respond with “Right-oh Robert” as I slipped Major’s lead. Walking past the front door on a hot day you were just feet away from the conversations within and that smell of stale smoke and beer. Men who had served in the First World War sat on the benches to the left of the entrance, holding little bowl pipes firmly between their teeth even as they spoke, removing them only to sip from their glass. But as well as alcohol, the Crown sold “coconut buttons” (think Bounty Bars but in 50mm squares and wrapped in pink foil). I loved them. At Christmas time they also sold sugar mice with string tails. Charlie died in 1962 and May took over as licensee but the pub finally closed its doors in 1964. Prior to 1950 Charlie, a former RAF steward, had been the licensee of The Cock.
I went into The Cock probably just once – to request display of a poster for a Youth Club event. You stepped down on entering from the street and the bar was immediately in front of you, running lengthways so that the room was of shallow depth. For me it held some sinister connotations – we had heard about the 1908 Feltwell murder while working in the harvest fields and how the culprit Nicholls was arrested at the Cock before his trial and his subsequent hanging at Norwich. The Cock had a rubble-surfaced car parking area and no doubt with refurbishment could have been a successful central venue today. Public auctions of real estate as well as chattels were held there; an arrangement which probably suited both auctioneer and licensee. There had once been a billiards room at the rear and meeting rooms on the upper floors. Like the Oak and The Chequers it had its darts, dominoes and bowling teams and played in local leagues as far as the King’s Lynn area. But it held more value as frontage and access for the development land to the rear (Mulberry Close) and less than a year after the Crown’s demise, The Cock closed its doors also.
The distinctive, 1930s style Chequers could muster a good darts team. The Sunday People newspaper ran a National Tournament and in June 1959 the Chequers team reached the Final of The Eastern Counties Area by beating the Kings Head of Freiston, Lincs (which is still trading). They lost to Leighton Buzzard's British Legion, who thus qualified for the National Finals in London but it was still quite an achievement for a small, village team. John’s dad was in that team and John also recalls being in the pub as a small boy one lunchtime, when Bill the landlord came in covered in blood on both arms right up to his shoulders declaring loudly that he was “in desperate need of a beer.” One of his sows had just given birth! My uncle from Scunthorpe (Feltwell born but expelled on his last day at school for his part in the Great Stinging Nettle Incident see Part 7 – Out of Mischief) always made a beeline to the Chequers whenever he came back to Norfolk. Big brother’s skiffle-cum-country & western band (The Blackjacks) began practising in the relatively spacious bar on a Friday night and shortly thereafter changed their name, to “The Checkers”. If pubs could only speak…
(to be continued).
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