Save Our Pubs UK

I nearly walked past London's carved-friar pub I stepped into The Black Friar in London for a quick stop and found bronze friars watching over curved benches and little tables. I stayed; pubs like this turn a pause into belonging, and we'd be poorer without them.

Dad doubted my pub pick-then cabbage won. I took him to The Redmire Village Pub near Leyburn, North Yorkshire, where two steak pies came with tender meat,chips and gravy. The red cabbage was so good we asked how it was made-and they told us. Cracking pub.

I looked up and forgot to leave I stop at Blisland Inn on Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, where a rest becomes a reason to stay. Pump clips and mugs crowd the ceiling; one glance becomes ten. Without this pub, the villaeg loses a place to linger together.

Dad’s £10-£20 Coventry pub lunch looks cremated. Sky Blue Tavern is our new-lunch gamble, but its lamb chops arrive charred, the chicken tikka is bone-dry and the naan breaks when folded. Even the draught Peroni tastes wrong. Sorry, Dad-your usual wins today.

This window seat turned ten minutes into an hour 🪟 I stopped at The Three Tuns in Hay-on-Wye, Powys, and took a table between its stone wall and two bright windows. We stayed talking. That room to slow down together is what the town would lose without its pub.

Ten minutes vanished at London's first community-owned pub 🪑 I stopped at The Ivy House in Nunhead, south London, for one quick drink. The wooden screen makes one bar feel lkie little rooms, and I stayed. Lose pubs like this and we lose places to talk and belong.

North Yorkshire’s Green Dragon made me stay 🐉 I stepped into the Green Dragon at Hardraw and found a village pub turning passing walkers into neighbours. Low beams and flagstones drew me to the hearth; take this room away and Hardraw loses a place to pause together.

This Worcestershire pie beat my usual steak I’ve just eaten at The Fleece Inn in Bretforton, near Evesham: a towering pie with mash and veg, warm service, then a pint in the courtyard of this National Trust pub. I’m already plotting my return-go hungry, friends.

Three tables make this the “big bar” I stopped at Birch Hall Inn in Beck Hole, North Yorkshire, for a pale ale served through a hatch from the village shop. I sat down and forgot my next stop; lose rooms this small and we lose an easy place to belong.

Seventy-minute wait for starters at Yorkshire pub I persuaded Dad to try The Malt Shovel near Harrogate; starters took 70 minutes,then came scallops with Gruyère and steak-and-ale pie. The pub disputes the wait, says Gruyère was listed and apologises for the empty salt pot. Dad wins.

Two villages pledge £601,300 to save their only pub Donhead St Andrew, Wiltshire, has no hall, shop or other pub; The Forester also served Donhead St Mary. The owners’ plan to make it a home was refused; they rejected the community’s formal offer, but talks continue.

Our pub lunch ended with the waiter doing a backflip At The Malt Shovel in Warton, Lancashire,we go in for food and a pint; Alan, our waiter, does a backflip after we ask. The food’s cracking, the beer’s excellent, and I’m already laughing about coming back for the front flip

Dad’s quick stop became our longest catch-up Dad and I only meant to pause at the Square and Compass in Worth Matravers, Dorset, but its tiny room turned a quick stop into a proper catch-up. There is no ordinary bar counter here; drinks come through a hatch, leaving the stone fireplace, dark beams and mismatched chairs to feel more like a shared front room. I took the peculiar high-backed wooden chair by the window (Dad wisely chose something sturdier), and neither of us hurried to leave. A pub like this gives walkers, locals and families somewhere to stop being strangers for a while; lose it and the village loses that easy meeting place. That is worth protecting.

I went in for one drink and stayed for the snug I stepped into the Bridge Inn in Topsham, Devon, near Exeter, meaning to have one quick drink and leave, then found the sort of small pub room that makes lingering feel completely normal. CAMRA - The Campaign for Real Ale The low ceiling, deep window seat and tucked-away seating stopped me in my tracks. I sat down for longer than planned (never a terrible outcome in a pub) and suddenly understood why rooms like this matter. You are not just passing through for a drink here; you have somewhere to sit, talk and belong for a while.

I nearly chose the dartboard table at The Six Bells 🎯 I stopped at The Six Bells in St Albans, Hertfordshire, for a quiet drink and nearly settled at the round table beneath the dartboard before realising this is a working local, not a room arranged for show. I moved to the bar instead, where hand pulls, worn stools and people leaning towards each other made staying longer feel like the sensible choice. Lose places like this and a neighbourhood loses its shared room for games, a catch-up and company without an invitation.

Gloucestershire’s Brockweir Inn ties rescue to local livelihoods. Farmers Pete Shewell and Jane Allen are backing a reopening built around produce sourced within five miles, while Ollie Gladstone mills donated bar timber. Lose the pub and local routes to customers shrink too.

This barman kept cellar craft alive 🍺 In 2013, former cellarman and landlord Jayson Perfect trained Dorset pub staff inside The George Hotel’s West Bay cellar: follow every cask brewery-to-glass, respect conditioning times and clean lines, or spoil the pour. Lose teaching pubs, and Britain loses that judgment.

I only meant to pause at Sheffield’s Grapes I’ve just stepped into The Grapes on Trippet Lane, a city-centre local whose three small rooms give people somewhere to meet and hear traditional Irish muaic. I turned into the rear lounge and noticed a flowered Art Deco lampshade glowing above red seats, framed memories and old trophies. I sat down instead (so much for ten minutes). Lose rooms like this and we lose the places where music, memories and ordinary catch-ups keep gathering.

Dad doubted my new-pub gamble until the lamb arrived. At the Cock & Pheasant in Bollington, Cheshire, our Sunday roast came with stuffing, pigs in blankets, cauliflower cheese and plenty of gravy. Then came a chocolate-orange dome. He’d happily go back; so would I. Lovely stuff.

The British Oak made cellar craft a team skill 🍺 In 2018, Blackheath publican Peter Clements won a national cellar award after 17 years in the trade, timing casks’ settling, venting and tapping-and teaching staff the routine. Cut corners hurt quality; shared skill protects this London local’s future.