THE BULL AND BLADDER

Disembarking from an overcrowded train at Cradley Heath, my destination pub is one that has been on my radar for a number of years, and one of the more remote ones I’ve so far sought out.

The Vine Hotel, to give the pub its proper name, is one that might not immediately make a list if asking anyone to name famous pubs in the UK, but to locals, it is a shrine to good ale, and a central part of the local community. I take note of the road’s name immediately before the pub; ‘Mount Pleasant’ as an encouraging sign of things to come.

The Vine has a somewhat intimidating exterior. It’s painted in a dark-cream colour, peeling in places, and is a hulking brute of a building, like a large block of Cheshire cheese with windows. Crowning the building is an imposing black sign with a quote written in dark gold block serif font (to my eye a close cousin of ITC Benguit) that reads:
“Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale” - Shakespeare.

It’s hardly original for that quote to adorn a public house, but few make such an effort to ensure you can’t miss it. The exterior is tidy, but devoid of extraneous ornamentation; no tiling, murals or hanging baskets are to be found. The first impression of the pub is one of a slightly hostile place.

I’m apprehensive about this one. I have for many years poured over a now slightly dog-eared copy of ‘The Pub’ by Pete Brown, and The Vine Hotel has always held a fascination, primarily for the fact that it is the brewery tap of Bathams Brewery, which is attached to the side of the building. The beer itself sounds like a tantalising point of difference from most standard session bitters, and so if I wish to try it (and I do), then I need to make the pilgrimage to the source. Brown’s description of the pub however, comes across as unfriendly, commenting that there are clear areas for you, as a stranger to this place, and that any requests for refreshment outside of their somewhat limited scope, might be met with a dismissive “sit down and stop asking questions”. I’m nervous to step foot inside.

Pete Brown is a titan of the beer writing world, his work is held in the highest esteem and I consider myself a great fan of his work myself. That being said, on crossing the threshold and doing very little to disguise myself as a somewhat flustered stranger to these parts, the radiant warmth of the welcome I am given shows quickly that, in this case, Mr. Brown has cast an unfairly hostile feel to a place of fantastic congeniality.

On walking in, the walls are tiled in burnt sienna, with the occasional bulls head relief to be found in some. The floor is a far stretching terrazzo of speckled white, that as it reaches out into the corridor reminds one of the static on old analogue television sets. I’m getting on. A small rounded corner of the bar pokes out into the corridor, and I look around to see where I should head. To the left of me is a very busy room, pregnant with conversation amongst and across many tables. To my right is a much quieter room, with one lone couple. I decide on the latter, and on seeing my wheeling a suitcase into the room, what little hope there may have been to go unnoticed fade away. The couple however, are friendly, and curious. So too is the barmaid on duty and a conversation is quickly struck up as to my purpose here.

“I’m filming a series about pubs in the UK, and The Vine was on the list, so I’ve come to check the place out. I won't get in the way.” I tell them. On hearing of my mission, a very different response to the one I was anticipating comes forth; both the couple and the barmaid begin listing off points of interest. “Do you know about Bathams?” comes one question. I answer that the best way would be to have a pint, and so order a bitter. Whilst it is being poured, I’m given a verbal ‘Bathams for Dummies’ quick guide, including - to my shame - how to pronounce it correctly. You’ll find two beers on most of the year, the Bitter, denoted with the blue ceramic badge, is a 4.3% golden ale, and the Mild, of similar colour in the glass and denoted with a grass-green pump clip, is a more friendly 3.5% ABV. The beer is made just next door, and the brewers have always been women. A third beer occasionally joins their ranks, a seasonal special called XXX, brewed at a more punchy 6.3% ABV and denoted with a black pump clip. It’s expected to come on in November in time for the Dudley Winter Ales Festival. Because the brewery is so small, in order to make the limited release, they have to halt production of the Bitter; their life blood. Hence, you only see a limited run for a couple months towards the end of the year, and fans of the brew must make the most of it whilst they can.

I set my pint down on my table and before I can settle in to try it, the couple opposite me start to tell me a few things about the pub. The room we’re in, legend has it, used to be a butchers, hence the pub’s nickname the ‘Bull and Bladder’. So famous is the moniker, I’m pointed towards several awards the pub has won over the years, all addressed to the Bull and Bladder rather than its official name. In the ceiling are pointed out two beam like depressions; “that’s where the butcher's hooks would have originally been in the shop. I think that’s right anyway.” states the gentleman, before inviting me to take note of the many framed photographs dotted around the room. They make up an almanac of days gone by in the pub, and are all very ordinary depictions of smiling people gathered around tables with pints of beer in hand. My eyes are cast upon a chair that sits in the corner just to the right of the couple who are giving me a sort of unofficial tour. They notice my gaze. "I wouldn’t sit in that one just yet”, the lady tells me. I assume it’s a favourite seat of a not as yet present regular. The two glance at each other, assessing whether or not to tell me the real reason. “That’s the chair folk like to sit in when they know they’re on the way out” comes the explanation from the bar. Story goes that a few elderly patrons over the years, have found themselves sitting for the final time in that one seat before passing away. “They don’t drop dead in the chair though” the lady in the couple is quick to reassure me.

Suddenly feeling the weight of my own mortality, now seems as good a time as any to sit down and take a sip of my pint. O…oh! Oooh. That’s quite different. On first sip, I can see what is meant by many a description of Batham’s bitter as being a ‘perfectly ordinary’ session beer, but with an odd quality that sets it apart. Despite being labelled as a bitter (and as is paradoxically the case with most brethren brews of the style), the beer itself is not especially bitter, but instead has a rich barley sweetness to it. There is something almost custardy about the brew. I find it to be delicious and demanding to be drunk, which I happily oblige. Several months later, I still find myself thinking about this beer, and the otherness that sets it apart from so many other bitters I’ve drank before and since. There is a lusciousness that is lacking in anything else I’ve drank on cask, and now that I’ve had it, there is an itch that is demanding to be scratched, and due in no small part to the very limited production run, that itch is going to be bothering me for some time.

Tearing myself away from my pint of ambrosia (the food of the Greek gods or the little pots of custard, honestly both comparisons work), I decide to explore the rest of the pub. One of the barmaids is keen to give me a guided tour of the place and points out a fair few of the quirks the pub has. I’m surprised that not only has my silly little project been accepted by the denizens of The Vine, but there is a clear pride in the building and its history. Everyone I speak to has a quiet reverence for the place and are eager to put it forward in the best light for me to document. The back room comes up next, and the barmaid apologises for the halloween decorations, and assures me, as if I were some stuffy hotel inspector, that this is the only room to be so festooned. The room has several tables, leatherette banquettes and a pair of dart boards at the other end. It’s not a popular nook of the pub tonight, and we both leave, to let its lone patron enjoy his pint in peace.

We next stop in the middle of the terrazzo floor outside.

“What do you notice about this bit of the floor then?”

 I’m asked. I glance down. It’s a floor alright. I look back up, shaking my head. She smiles and crouches down slightly.

“See the fish there?”

I follow her finger to a miniscule spot on the floor. Well I’ll be. There, embedded amongst the tiny jumble of tiles, is indeed a tiny silver fish shape. Story is, many years ago. It was a piece of a person's ring that dropped off when the floor was still setting, and going unnoticed, ended up being a part of the floor. I’m so distracted by this miniscule discovery that, in awe, I briefly stop listening to my guide talking, before quickly snapping back in as she finishes. Did she just say ‘prisoners of war’?!

Across from us is another room, decorated much the same as all the others; leatherette banquettes, fuzzy static floors, half-tiled walls and a variety of framed photographs from days gone by in the pub. There is an air of secrecy in this room, the frosted glass windowed door isn’t left ajar like the others. “This is what we call ‘The Kid’s room’” I’m offered by way of an explanation. Apparently, a Masons-like gathering congregates occasionally in this room, known as ‘The Buffaloes’. I’m always sceptical of secret societies. Probably because of their very nature as secret societies. The room, despite appearances, is not in fact reserved for the clan’s private use, but tends to be the last one to fill up.

“I might as well show you the kitchen whilst we’re here”. My visit is in the early evening and so way past any hot meals the pub offers; Lunch is served from 12-2pm, a concise menu of regional pub favourites. It’s at this stage I need to explain faggots to you. In addition to being an unkind slur for my species, it’s also a kind of … meatball? I’ve lived in Scotland for fifteen years now (dear god, the merciless ephemeral nature of linear time) and so my first instinct is to declare that a faggot is basically the Midland’s answer to Haggis, but substituting the sheep for the pig. Heart, liver and fatty underbelly of Babe are mixed with breadcrumbs, herbs and onions, and often found alongside mashed potato, peas and gravy. Some braver recipes add the pig’s bollocks too. Scrumptious. There was a brew ha-ha regarding the regional staple in 2004 when defunct budget supermarket chain Somerfield thought it would be a good idea to advertise them as a husband rejecting his wife’s dinner suggestion, voicing: "I've got nothing against faggots, I just don't fancy them". They got a smack on the wrist for that one.

My brief tour done, I return to base for more sips of that bronze coloured liquid amrita and to jot down a few notes. I take in the room, noting any details that might be useful down the line, and spend a little time waving a camera around. It’s only at this stage I notice, there isn’t any music, for many a sure sign of a ‘proper pub’. On the counter of the bar is a refrigerated display containing another local delicacy; cobs. Roll, bap, barmcake, muffin, morning roll, stotty, barra, or scoffler There is an alarming number of names for what do indeed vary slightly regionally, but are essentially the same thing: a round bit of bread to shove fillings in and insert into one’s face. Here I notice amongst the doorstep wedges of cheese and onion, ham and egg mayo millings an oddity to me; uncooked black pudding. Blood sausage is another local favourite, and indeed I’ve been scoffing the stuff for many years as part of a Full Scottish, but the notion of just slicing the stuff straight out of the fridge, sticking it in some bread and chowing down is alien, verging on disgusting to me. To each their own.

There was a local controversy regarding the service of cobs back in the year of our lord 2007. Some health inspectors started sniffing around pubs such as the Olde Swan, which fell afoul after keeping their cheese and onion cobs at ambient temperature wrapped in cling film rather than stored in the fridge until being served. The article I’ve read on this is a local tabloid through and through and contains the lexis of outrage and injustice, with mentions of the ‘looming threat’ of the ‘food police’ leading to the snack being ‘outlawed’. Proper Downton Abbey nonsense. There is an amusing quote from the landlord of the Olde Swan however that goes “What I would like to know is how many people have died from eating a cheese cob in the past?”. Honestly, I’m curious now myself. The then manager of the Bull and Bladder was likewise quoted that it was a ‘shame’ to see them off the menu.

 It isn’t long however before I end up reintegrated seamlessly into the conversation of the room. The topic? The importance of pubs like the Bull and Bladder to the local community. It’s clear from my three pint long chat with the regulars who passed through the room and the two bar staff (one who disappears for a very long time into the cellar to change a cask, and ends up worrying the other barmaid that they have met their demise down there) that, contrary to the decade long scare mongering that pub’s aren’t like they used to be, that persons old and young still rely on places like this for a form of connection, of community, of place. It explains the pride and gentle encouragement I received as a total stranger to share in the warmth of the place. Maybe Mr. Brown caught them on an off day, because the pub he describes in his book couldn't be any more alien from the one I’ve found.