by Robin Cowlyn

This piece came about from a conversation with Mick Potts at The Free Trade Inn. I was trying to explain a feeling, never the easiest thing to do and he was looking at me askance, he claims it was my reference to the condensation streaming down the windows of The Free Trade but I’m not so sure.

Anyway, even I knew I was reaching at the time but I’ve thought about it some more and I think I might be able to articulate it better now. What I was trying to say is that there are moments in a pub where everything just comes together, it just clicks. The beer, the atmosphere, the light, everything, and this is comparable to similar moments in sport or the arts. In that conversation, I was comparing the buzz in the pub, to a time I was in the audience at the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon, when the play, the actors and the audience just connect. Or watching the Toon, when the goals fly in and that disbelief becomes joy and belief.

Those small moments of bliss, you may not actually be aware of them at the time, though sometimes you are, when things just click, you are in the flow, in the moment, when time stretches or almost stops.
I suppose the thing to do is recognise them, cherish them and if possible even try to recreate them.

The one I was trying to describe to Mick was the Maiden launch night in 2019, I think. The Free Trade was an oasis of golden light and warmth spilling out on a chilly, dark evening, the lights on the Tyne and the bridges glowing through the big picture windows. The pub itself was packed with people enjoying
themselves; with the rise and fall of joyous conversation, the aforementioned condensation beading the windows, as the warm inside met the cold outside, bringing a sense of community to complement the superb beer and the attentiveness of the staff. It feels to me there is almost a sort of magic here created by the way a pub is run, how its staff set a tempo and a feel of belonging and welcomeness.

Do I compare thee…

This feeling was comparable to other instances, like sitting in the RSC, in the cheapest of cheap seats, high up in the gods with a girl I fancied who obviously liked me enough to traipse all the way from South Wales to see a play with me. Initially, the audience was restless, the play started and there was rustling and some noise from the tourist seats in the stalls. Then it clicked. Cherie Lunghi held the audience in the palm of her hand and we were transported by the language, the rhythm and the story.

Or Barcelona in the Champions League. No one gave the Toon a chance, and then Faustino Asprilla decided that this was his stage, his shirt on a corner flag, waving to the delight of the fans. Hugs, chants, occasion.

Or sitting in The Mean Eyed Cat being drawn into a long rambling conversation by a young French woman, her girlfriend and their dog, as she became progressively merrier and more endearing.

What makes those moments?

It’s not always the big things or large groups of people. It could be a quiet afternoon in the pub, sitting reading a book, sipping on a pint, where everything just falls away. Or it could be the moment I had last summer, slightly inebriated, drinking something expensively American and sour, as the sun set, dancing on my own to Chvrches streaming from my phone; I suppose I might have looked a bit of a
fool but I didn’t care.

So I suppose what I’m saying is that hopefully we’ll get more of these moments as things approach a new normality, where people can gather again in pubs, as a community to just enjoy themselves. Here’s to some small moments of bliss.

Guest blog post by Robin Cowlyn. You can check out more from Robin in this piece In Search of the Perfect Pils, or follow over on Twitter at @BombGirl