Thank God it's Friday ... A cautionary tale from Durham. Discovering The Dun Cow. Part 2

If you missed part one, you can read it here. Now, to an apology. Initially I thought the tale would be told in two parts — I guess I got carried away in the reminiscing — this will now stretch to three! I suppose it’s only an apology if reading it is a chore! Anyways, three it will be. Please enjoy part two, and I would love to hear from you in the comments below.

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Part Two …

The ‘sliding door’ was literally that, and not dissimilar to a prison cell entrance. HMP Durham, which shared the same street address as The Dun Cow, was familiar with such arrangements.

On entry, there was a tricky downhill ramp to negotiate; this gave way to the main room, well, the only room! The bar was to the left, and three tables were huddled together under the gaze of the bay window to the right. I was sure I heard a television broadcast when I was in the passage; it could have been the confusing chatter that billowed from two of the three tables, but I hope not.

Where was the damn television? A question asked earlier! Hopefully a better outcome this time?

The spare table called me over, naively, I almost ran to its comforts, inexcusably forgetting to order a drink. The television issue was clouding my thinking. One positive was the favourable view from my new vantage point. The gathering to my left were in fine spirits. Eight or so males, most similar in age to me, seemed to be closer to the end of the day than the start. Folks roll like this in Durham!

Durham City

The bar was wide enough to have four stools standing to attention. None of them were occupied, however, the condition of their upholstery suggested they had seen plenty of posteriors in their time. Sitting here would afford you an intimate position with the bar person.

The said bar person happened to be my future babysitter, Jennifer Whitfield!

Clearly, I didn't know this at the time. What a stroke of luck, though. Jen was an absolute treasure, and she was the pub's landlady. I didn't make it to mass this particular Sunday morning; if I had, though, I would have prayed for a babysitter named Jennifer! Some things come to those who are lucky."

It’s fair to assume that where there’s a landlady, there should be a landlord.

Alan Whitfield will enter the story a little later. For now, though, it should be noted that this relationship didn’t follow the conventional hierarchical rules of the Catholic Church. Jen ruled the roost, and Alan was happy to lay the eggs!

I can hear Alan saying, “Why yurrr a F’ing wankor.”

My opening conversation with Jennifer went something like this:

“What will you have, like?” A leading question I thought. I replied nervously, “Mmmm, I’m not sure, what would you recommend?” 

A fiction-like Jennifer

“Why, the Castle Eden, like.” I was thrown by all the “likes” - but, hey, stay with the flow. “Great, that sounds good, I’ll try a pint of the Castle Eden.” And, right there, started, some would say, an unhealthy association with Castle Eden ale. 

The Castle Eden Brewery has been a constant part of North East brewing since it was founded by John Nimmo in 1826, and located in the village of Seaham, the signature brew, Castle Eden ale, had a mere 15 miles to travel to the Dun Cow. Always ensuring a fresh pint, that’s if Jen was pulling!

I do grow to like Alan Whitfield!

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The pint was delivered to perfection, a creamy head covered the smooth-looking ale, not warm, nor cold, just right. “Thank you.” I mumbled, and retreated to my designated corner. By this time, thankfully, the television had come into view, but the only problem was that it was showing a BBC gardening show. In February, really?

Back to the bar I went, this time with a little more certainty, I asked Jen if the channel could possibly be switched to show the football.

“Who’s playing, like?” “Mmmm, Manchester City I think?” I knew full well who was playing, just was lacking some nuts if truth be told.

“Why aye man, he wants the bloody football on?” Jen yelled out to the bar. Remember, the bar consisted only of the eight or so guys gathered around the other tables.

“Who’s playing, like?” This came from Mr. Whitfield. A bearded man of some fifty odd years, impeccably turned out, and someone who looked fairly senior in the scheme of things.

“Bloody City” Jen said, Alan replied “Why aye man, should be a canny game, they're not playing the toon are they?” “Nee man, you’d have to be bloody mortal to watch that crap.” Jen replied. Mortal had me confused, I would later learn it was local for pissed, drunk — something that seemed to engulf The Dun Cow a good bit.

Alan Whitfield became a great friend while I was in Durham. He was the landlord, and I may have painted him as a flimsy person, but this is not the case. He universally went by the nickname Ticket, and everyone in Durham seemed to know him as Ticket, or variations of: “Bloody Ticket” being a popular derivative.

This begs the obvious question: why Ticket?

Well, the short story is that he worked on the railways before taking residence at The Dun Cow. Work might be construed as an over-stated term. He was a conductor, the guy with the funny hat that yells, “Tickets please.” He had little appetite for protocols, apparently — with the Durham-to-York line becoming one of the most well-travelled routes in Northern England. Mainly due to his disappearance on the return journey!

So, back to the football. City was playing OK, I was slowly getting acquainted with my pint, and the crew to my left was starting to find their voice. It became apparent quickly that none of my soon-to-be friends liked travelling to the bar. Pints, and more pints, were being delivered with little sign of a transaction. Later, as I became more intimate with Ticket, it was clear that this was an anomaly to the norm. It must have been the Sabbath at play. Or perhaps Sunderland had won the previous day.

With one eye on the game, and both ears now on the conversation, I started to pick up on the narrative that was being dissected. As well as putting some names to faces.

Ticket was holding court, acting as the pseudo-chairman of sorts. His offsider appeared to be called Bill, or Billy, or even just Sanders, which I presumed was his surname. Bill was younger than Ticket, his face was well-set, a smile seemed difficult for him to muster, honestly I thought he had a couple of gobstoppers squatting in his mouth. I grew to love Billy like a brother. He was, and is, an absolute gentleman.

And, that might be a good place to pause, with the scene set and more good stuff to come from The DunCow. The concluding post will be out this Friday

As always, thank you for being here.