My second trip away from London in as many weekends began in good fashion last Friday. Destined towards Newcastle, for a real escape from the big city, I had two priorities on setting off:
The locals are nicknamed Geordies. They speak in an almost indecipherable accent, wear t-shirts on the coldest nights, and often have a fetish for fighting. So, head down and walking in as straight a line as possible I headed off to find a taxi. It is not unknown for taxi drivers to also hold a rather alarming level of hatred towards "Bloody Southerners". All went well, however. Cab no. 48 was driven by a northern convert who had spent a couple years south of the Watford Gap, and he forgave me my heritage.
Once out of the city centre, the atmosphere became much more relaxed. Relaxed prices are equally notable. I thought the cabbie was joking when he charged me less than a fiver for what had been a reasonably extensive journey. Later, I learnt the error of my ways. A really decent pint measured in at a little over a pound - no wonder the city is famous for its alcoholism!
Most of the best pubs are run by Scottish and Newcastle Breweries who make McEwans' beers, Newcastle Brown Ale, Theakstons and the strange tasting 80 shilling. Very few drink anything but Scottish and Newcastle Drinks. Understandably - all of them are good beers and seem to suit the climate - overcast and windy. My favourite of the S&N portfolio is McEwans Exhibition. The Best Scotch (half Ale, half Lager, no whisky) also ranks highly.
My first night was spent in The Lonsdale, a perfect local. Two bars divide the oldies - the flat cap brigade of twenty years ago and what in term time is a large student mass. The quiet room, which has no jukebox, a television, darts and a surprisingly noisy fruit machine was only too resistable. The other was very pleasant - Juke box, fewer hacking coughs, women (and even a few girls) and nicer seats. A lovely night out in the suburbs.
Saturday night proved to be time to hit the town, or 'toon' as they Northeners pronounce it. The tradition is that the boys and girls go shopping during the afternoon on a street called High Bridge for a new outfit, designer and expensive, every week. They then wear the outfit out that night, usually to a selection of pubs and clubs in the adjoining Bigg Market.
The Bigg Market was, several years ago, rated the most dangerous street in England. Not that there are any muggers or murderers, but more simply because if you haven't got muscles like Sylvester Stallone, you risk getting involved in a fight. If you have got muscles like Stallone, you'll definitely end up being challenged. Not a nice area and as soon as the sun started going down, I stayed well clear.
Not to far away from the Bigg Market, but far enough, is Newcastle's quayside. We started off at the Offshore 44, which sits almost directly underneath the Tyne Bridge (pictured above). The Geordies would tell you that at ú1.90 per pint this place was extortionate. After a while, I started agreeing with them, but I think that was just because they looked violent. A couple of pints of McEwans later on, I felt less intimidated and almost began to try a bit of Geordie vocabularly. All in all, the extortion was well worthwhile the opportunity to sit in a comfortable chair and look out at the beautifully lit river.
Soon we had moved to a cheaper place, the Bridge Hotel. From that point onwards things become a bit mingled in my memory. I remember that I worked out that it must be possible to obtain eight pints for a tenner and then tried to find out whether it was also possible to drink them. At some point later in the evening, I remember a night club with lots of very muscley young girls and even more muscley young boys holding very titghtly onto one or more of them. I was relieved the following morning to also note that I had incurred no bruising whatsoever!
"Arthur" is on holiday
Take a look at the Pub Guide while you're in the neighbourhood!
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