THE VILLAGE INN

 

"The village inn, the dear old inn,

So ancient, clean and free from sin,

True centre of our rural life

Where Hodge sits down beside his wife

And talks of Marx and nuclear fission

With all a rustic's intuition.

Ah, more than church or school or hall,

The village inn's the heart of all."

 

So spake the brewer's P. R. O.,

A man who really ought to know,

For he is paid for saying so.

And then he kindly gave to me

A lovely coloured booklet free.

'Twas full of prose that sang the praise

Of coaching inns in Georgian days,

Showing how public-houses are

More modern than the motor-car,

More English than the weald or wold

And almost equally as old,

And run for love and not for gold

Until I felt a filthy swine

For loathing beer and liking wine,

And rotten to the very core

For thinking village inns a bore,

And village bores more sure to roam

To village inns than stay at home.

 

And then I thought I must be wrong,

So up I rose and went along

To that old village alehouse where

In neon lights is written "Bear".

 

Ah, where's the inn that once I knew

With brick and chalky wall

Up which the knobbly pear-tree grew

For fear the place would fall?

 

Oh, that old pot-house isn't there,

It wasn't worth our while;

You'll find we have rebuilt "The Bear"

In Early Georgian style.

 

But winter jasmine used to cling

With golden stars a-shine

Where rain and wind would wash and swing

The crudely painted sign.

 

And where's the roof of golden thatch?

The chimney-stack of stone?

The crown-glass panes that used to match

Each sunset with their own?

 

Oh now the walls are red and smart,

The roof has emerald tiles.

The neon sign's a work of art

And visible for miles.

 

The bar inside was papered green,

The settles grained like oak,

The only light was paraffin,

The woodfire used to smoke.

 

And photographs from far and wide

Were hung around the room:

The hunt, the church, the football side,

And Kitchener of Khartoum.

 

Our air-conditioned bars are lined

With washable material,

The stools are steel, the taste refined,

Hygienic and ethereal.

 

Hurrah, hurrah, for hearts of oak!

Away with inhibitions!

For here's a place to sit and soak

In sanit'ry conditions.

 

JOHN BETJEMAN