But there comes a point where plain and unvarnished starts to morph into plain tatty, and sometimes you wonder whether it’s simply because the owners can’t be bothered to apply a bit of polish. And, if they can’t keep the pub spick-and-span, what does that say about the cellar? I have to say on more than one occasion I’ve suffered beer redolent of a lack of line cleaning in scruffy “alternative” pubs.
Things get even worse when pubs start to accumulate collections of what some would regard as interesting memorabilia, but which others would simply dismiss as tat. It’s a danger sign once assorted stuff starts to spread from shelves and window ledges on to the seats themselves. I’ve hinted before how my trip earlier this year to the legendary drinking nirvana of Thanet didn’t quite live up to expectations, and one GBG-listed pub in particular came across as more like the private home of an eccentric hoarder.
Sometimes, as with the famous Yew Tree at Cauldon, it can work and add genuine individuality and character to a pub. But there’s one well-known free house in the North-West, which I won’t name, where the general accumulation of mostly WW2-related artefacts starts to obstruct the seating and access to the bar and, to my mind, goes too far. It just comes across as messy and tatty, and you have to wonder whether it’s ever cleaned or dusted.