The Moon Under Water: A Response

I listened to George Orwell’s essay while waiting for the kettle to boil this morning and immediately felt minded to write a response.

Orwell writes about the perfect London Pub,  The Moon on The Water, and captures so closely the quintessential essence, the quintessence, of such a perfect London pub that I have little to add, only that he wrote this essay eighty years ago, in 1946, and much has changed, and much hasn’t changed, but still, I felt it worthy of a response. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do. Read it here.

There are many Moons Under The Water now, but Orwell’s is the original. Our Pub, for the purpose of this response, is called the Lune Over The Water, its a sort a play on Words. My perfect pub is not in London, it is in Lancaster, the city of the fort on the Lune. The Lune being the river, the water, on which Lancaster is built, and Lune being the French word for moon, its all really very clever if you think about it.

So Orwell speaks of the perfect pub being one that is close to a bus stop, but is tucked away to where the rabble cannot find it. We can all agree, though perhaps the rabble will differ, that we all love a good pub without the rabble. The rabble have their pubs, we have ours, and never twain shall meet.

He speaks of the ample elbow room of Victorian grandeur, and the original features and decor, uncheapened by modernity. Of a warm welcome and familiar faces. Pub grub and delicious ales served in the proper vessels. Little has changed in the mix of the perfect pub in those eighty years.

To the Lune Over The Water, I would perhaps add only maybe a large jar of pickled eggs on the shelf behind the bar. Homemade pickled eggs of a certain vintage and sour enough to set the drinking pace for the evening. Like the Moon, the Lune is as much a place of conversations as it is for drinking, and we very much want to keep it that way.

There were no jukeboxes in Orwell’s time. Might we risk the addition of a small jukebox in the corner? Or would that invite a newcomer to inadvertently break the conversational ambiance with their poor taste? No. The only good jukebox is an inoperable jukebox. Some stylish lines from a fifties antique offers us some intrigue and a window on the past, its tantalizing playlists trigger conversations and recollections, and stories abound. But, gracefully, we are spared the sounds of another’s loud and invasive noise of choice by the want for a replacement needle.

Live music is no bad thing in the more boisterous establishments, where shouting words at the ear of your companion and moving on to the next one is all part of the fun, and those establishments are welcome to it. A charming pub of the quality of the Lune Over The Water has no call for entertainers, for a pub is entertainment enough of itself.

The biggest change from Orwell’s time is the smoking ban. The air may be cleaner, but gone is the smokey charm. And gone too are the cigarette machines. I am self censoring here, no one called them cigarette machines, but we’ll run with it. Somewhere in every pub, often near the door or the toilets was a vending machine that would sell packets of 16 cigarettes, in boxes the size of twenties. The perfect pub sells them in twenties, they would be tax exempt, and by some ill understood legal concession, smoking is permitted in some areas.

Vaping is not permitted anywhere on the premises.

Of the decor, on the walls of the Lune there are small framed photos of famous and note worthy patrons of the past, now difficult to discern, and somewhat faded by time and the near century of accumulated nicotine yellow. Where some pubs might make the mistake of redecorating, this one hasn’t. The furniture is replaced only when it is beyond repair, and is replaced with the suitable stools and chairs and tables from those pubs still recklessly engaged in the mistake.

Serving food at lunch, I would call for liver and onions, hotpot, or beef stew. Neopolitan ice cream or spotted dick for pudding. The modern pub has too much choice, we are spoiled for choice in fact. We choose from burgers to pizza, to curry, to fish and chips, even gourmet fish finger butties. This is not the way. A limited choice, or no choice at all keeps things nice and simple. Less is more.

Sunday Roasts though. That’s a good honest meal for the weekend. Always two meats to choose from. Sometimes Chicken and Lamb, sometimes Beef and Pork. Every now and then we’d be surprised with roast duck or goose, or even goat, and there would always be some sort of amusing anecdote behind the unexpected menu. Like the time farmer Ted had the problem with the rabbits, and rabbit and ale pie was on the menu for weeks.

And while the food that is served is excellent, the Lune is not a restaurant. You cannot book a table, and the choice is limited. Do not arrive hungry at the Lune, you might be disappointed.

Every pub has a selection of snacks. Its keeps the thirst going, and therefore the drinks, and therefore conversation, and thats how you build the evening. The snacks at the Lune are frozen in time, somehow stocking long gone brands and flavours. Piglets, Hedgehog flavour crisps, and KP Skydivers. Along side the usual pork scratching and peanuts, and of course, pickled eggs.

In the evenings, around 20:30, a man called Trevor, wearing a white overcoat would enter the pub with with a wide tray or basket, offering the delicacies of the marine for a small sum. Cockles, mussels, fish sticks, crab claws, and prawns.

Entertainment at the Lune. Need it even be said? No television. No sports. No football. No music videos.

But there is a piano, positioned right where no one will notice it. It is in tune, and it receives a lick of polish every other day, but its used only often enough to not be annoying. Every once in a while, maybe to mark an occasion, maybe when the beer is on the turn and the patrons are going loopy, the whole pub would gather around the key thrasher and an old dear reliving her choir days.

The Lune is not without its novelties. Beneath the building is a deep well shaft, discovered during structural work, and revealed for the first time in 400 years. This well is capped with glass allowing guests to peer down in to the atmospheric lighting, and maybe see a face staring back at you from the shadows.

The Ladies Toilets are said to be haunted. There are several stories behind who that ghost may be. The coachmaster’s daughter. A pendle witch. A jilted lover. New sightings bring new stories and ideas every other year or so.

In the Gents, next to the Johnny machine is a gullabilty testing machine. A narrow wooden case with brass fittings and a glass compartment displays an old 60 watt light bulb. A small sign by the coinslot invites you to insert a coin, preferably a pound coin. I won’t spoil the surprise by revealing what happens when you insert your money.

Outside, there is a beer garden, plenty of seating for those rare sunny days when you can risk leaving the house without a coat. Plenty of shade for midday, plenty of shelter for when the short-lived sunshine returns from whence it came. As with the Moon Under Water, the Lune too has a play area. Not just slides but the whole gambit, outdoor adventure play. An enormous wooden fort with slides, and rope bridges and ladders and poles and more ropes and everything you can imagine and more. All safe and sound with soft padding of springy ground coated with rubber and a thick scattering of cork and soft bark. Having children should be no impediment to the joys of conversation.

Most importantly, The Lune Over Water is within walking distance of home, and just one street away from the humblest family run fish and chip shop you’ll ever know. On entering the chippy, six pints in, you’re greeted from behind the counter by the cute smile of a young lady that seems to fit available but not available but not unavailable, and hello what can I get you in to the small space between two cheeky dimples. The freshest haddock and cod, fried in beef dripping, and the crispiest batter you can get, and a generous serving of chips, drenched with lashings and lashings of salt and vinegar, wrapped in yesterday’s news and eaten with a small wooden fork on the walk home, beneath the brilliance of a clear moonless night.

Much like the Moon, the Lune doesn’t exist. But there are, or there have been, many such places about Lancaster that would qualify as the perfect pub. In the Three Mariners you’ll find a ghost, in The Sun Inn you’ll find a well, and though its long gone now, the John O’Gaunt had a gullability testing machine in the gents.

I recall many great nights out. Back when pubs were always crowded and the beer affordable. Now, many of our beloved public houses, are dying. Barely worth opening in the midweek for the amount of footfall they see.

I can think back on countless nights, unbroken runs of perfect nights out, where the beer was perfect, the company was perfect, the atmosphere was perfect. Like the Moon, the Lune doesn’t quite exist as I would like it, but after a few beers, every pub is the perfect pub.