What makes a good country pub? It should be warm and friendly, of course. Spare me the grumpy Lakeland landlords who cannot hide their loathing of outsiders. A fire helps. A real one. Floors that can handle muddy boots, children, dogs and crisps. Yes. And the beer selection should lift the spirits, not sap them. Continental pop is fine. So too British fizz. There’s no snobbery in this column. A pint of Cruzcampo on a warm sunny day is a delight. But a proper pub should also offer something fresh: a pint that is still alive. If we were French, our breweries would be sources of national pride with their own motorway signposts. Vive la France. Vive le Pint.
Most of all, a pub must be what Hemingway described as a “clean, well-lighted place”. It is not a bar. It is not a club. It is not a hotel. It should comfort, relax, lift the spirits and loosen the tongue. A place to settle in. As at home, TV is allowed, and so too music, so long as they do not intrude. The landlord must guide the atmosphere towards homeliness. Think of Mr Banks in Mary Poppins: “A firm but gentle hand, noblesse oblige.” Publicans are to England what head waiters are to France: respected members of the social order.
The Old Nag’s Head in Edale, Derbyshire, ticks all these boxes, welcoming the author (shh, no spoilers) and his family this Christmas with genuine warmth. Six halves of Coke for the kids, six punnets of chips, and a pint of Theakeston’s for yours truly. Joy. The chips were fresh, hot and plentiful. The beer lively and moreish. The fire had a sign asking to be fed. The floors were stone for the walkers, but the place warm. At the Nag’s Head, Deep England slumbers on contentedly.
[Further reading: Laboozer: the definitive Labour pub crawl]
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This article appears in the 07 Jan 2026 issue of the New Statesman, What Trump wants
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