EDITOR'S PERSPECTIVE: A pint in the (Un)Welcome

It was a proper old-fashioned drink-only pub with the human equivalent of an electric fence in there to keep you out.

A bit out of the way, you had to take a walk along the quay, past several more salubrious establishments, cross the bridge and wander away from the canal and river’s city-based attractions.

Non-locals, just out for a stroll, would have happened upon it by a chance and entered with little clue as to the irony of the pub’s name. The Welcome Inn was referred to by those in the know as the Unwelcome, but despite that there was a lot of love for this quirk in the Exeter pub scene.

Wine and sports bars, coffee shops and restaurants were swamping every available building, refits leaving behind little trace of what went before; hiding history as if to deny the past.

The Welcome though was history. In front of it waterways that had served the once busiest port in England, behind it a huge gasworks. it had the appearance of a large terrace house, and an aura of peace, secrecy and impending sadness.

The city was the first to be lit by gas and The Welcome benefited from that, its refusal to go electric typifying its general attitude to modern life. Back in the day it had hosted wrestling matches and inquests, and its clientele could probably remember both.

The landlady, Dawn, looked as if she had been there since its 19th century opening, but was no pushover. Sometimes she would close the door if she was busy.

On entering the bar - supposing you had got that far – deliberately cold to put you off, she would take a deliberately studied look at the clock and if it was within half an hour of closing time, subject you to a bit of a grilling as to whether you would manage a pint in the time remaining and suggesting you might be better off with a half. Or, in fact, leaving altogether.

A move towards the juke box was treated similarly. How much are you putting in? Do you realise there’s only 20 minutes and it’s seven songs for a pound so you won’t be able to hear all of them?

The men’s toilets were out the back, down a pathway and though a garden, thereby further encouraging you not to drink too much, particularly if the weather was bad.

There was no food and, though I can’t vouch for this, I don’t think children were welcome. Nor were adults, come to think of it. Ducks were though. There’s not much information to be had about the pub, but one shared memory to be found online is: “I remember one chap use to come along regularly for a drink with his duck. He would let the duck have a swim in the canal, then he would call it and it would come waddling to him and he would put it in a wicker basket and go in to the pub for a drink.”

Dawn continued working in the pub until well into her 80s and now, sadly in my eyes, it is a tea room.

Each town or city has managed to cling on to one or two pubs that have retained their character, but most have gone by the wayside. A mixture of “family friendliness”, probably the smoking ban, health and safety and high costs means independent pubs have become difficult to run and those who want to drink in them can’t afford to or are made to feel out of place.

It’s the modern world – it always is – and if you aren’t prepared to fit in then you are not welcome. The Welcome Inn delivered a deliberately contrary take on that and no brewery would have dared to interfere.

I for one would raise a glass to that.