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Saddle Up!
By Roy Edmonds
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‘Local’ history
- A taste of Blackpool’s oldest pub, through some of its colourful characters.
Copyright circa 2011
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1. The Mount
GREETINGS from the Saddle - my local hostelry and an escape
from the daily demands of this hectic world.
Computers have made us all global communicators; holidays have
long been international; our work, scattered families and distant
friends make motorway journeys routine . . . but our feet and hearts
are still neighbourhood bound.
This is never more true than after retiring, which has given me time
to concoct this ‘local’ history.
Just a couple of miles inland from blowsy Blackpool (noted for fresh
air and fun), Marton has stood much longer astride the rural Fylde
coastline of the Irish Sea. Its historic heart is Great Marton.
Stand on one of the main residential thoroughfares of Blackpool,
Whitegate Drive, by its oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, and you can still
discern the original village of Great Marton.
Beside the Saddle, which dates back to the Civil War and provided
stabling for roundhead troops, is St Paul's old churchyard. To the
pub's other side, on Preston Old Road, are tiny cottages which have
stood for more than two centuries on a winding route stagecoaches
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took to Preston.
Edmonds Towers stands a discreet distance from the Saddle, whose
more recent history and characters I hope to explore in this
appreciation. However, it's a family story of wealth and woe on its
doorstep which is my starting point.
In the 19th Century there were only a few artisan cottages on
Preston Old Road while Wren Grove, the present small cul-de-sac
near Whitegate Drive (then Whitegate Lane), was called Green
Lane. This ran down to what is now the White House, on the corner
of Lightburn Avenue, but was previously the landowner's home
Blaydon House.
My own house deeds list the tenancy dues to be paid at Blaydon
House. A chap christened Lynsey I met at Blackpool Cricket Club
was born in my home many years before I acquired it. He could
remember open fields and carthorses grazing where now other
houses stand.
What was until recently the Far East takeaway was back then the
Lord Nelson Alehouse and a tall building stood behind the area's
third pub, the old Boar's Head, which was Marton Brewery. Further
down Whitegate Lane was The Mill Inn, beside Marton Windmill,
now renamed the Oxford.
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Completing the nest of buildings in Great Marton was a church
school and infants' classrooms where new houses now stand facing
the Boars Head.
Inland from its Whitegate Drive end, Preston Old Road crosses
South Park Drive and a large house still stands on a promontory,
called The Mount. This was the home of Marton benefactor John
Picken Dixon. It was previously a farmhouse,
surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see
and good shooting territory. Mr Dixon, a
wealthy cotton mill owner, turned The Mount
into a grand house in the country style and
entertained visitors in squirely fashion. He had
the first Silver Cloud Rolls Royce in the area
but was also generous with his wealth, making
widespread donations every Christmas to local people and the poor.
It was J.P. Dixon who had the crumbling, old St Paul's Church by
the Saddle rebuilt in its present grandeur. Perhaps he had hoped to
see his youngest son Edward married there. . . but instead Edward
was killed and buried in France towards the end of the Great War.
Afterwards J.P.Dixon bided much of his time nurturing famed rose
gardens about The Mount.
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Edward and other local men killed in the First World War are
commemorated on the cenotaph his family erected. There are
stories of a gun carriage to commemorate them being drawn down
from The Mount to the churchyard, where the Dixon family vault
still stands prominently. Near the cenotaph there are also flat
gravestones illustrating the darker days of Great Marton when so
many children died.
In communal mindedness typical of the time, J.P. Dixon also
established Marton Institute for the recreation of local working
men. Meanwhile, at the Saddle itself, the Leigh family had a history
of providing free fruit and honey to children from a hatch where the
current gents toilets block stands.
Now the local kids get their sweets from a 24-hour Tesco Express
just round the corner. Amenities for older locals include the nearby
chippy, pie shop, barber's and, last but not least, the bookies. Pull
up any afternoon at the pelican crossing on Whitegate Drive,
outside the Saddle Inn, and you will see some of its many
characters crossing on their ritual route from bar to betting
counter.
We can only wonder what good, old J.P. would have said!
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2. Lords, Commons and
T'Others
I STARTED drinking in Blackpool's Saddle Inn when it wasn't the
oldest pub in the resort. In the late 1970s the old Foxhall on the
Promenade was still standing, though something of a rough house.
The Saddle had always been tightly run and the tenant back then, Jim
Dyson, kept up the tradition so keenly he became famous for his readiness to ban
offenders on a bizarre variety of perceived outrages.
Some outstanding offences over the years included poking the fire ("Only I'm allowed
to do that" - Jim); laughing too loud (a larger-than-life burger salesman from the
Golden Mile, later murdered while on holiday in Florida - possibly for the same
behaviour); speaking in French (a languages teacher celebrating end of term too
extravagantly), and stuttering ("Wasting staff time" - Jim). The last
offender had only managed to get a series of 'p's out - p-p-p-p. Jim
went through the alternatives - pint of bitter, pint of mild, pint of
Bass - all to no avail then angrily issued his ban. As he left, the
offender was heard to finally mutter: "I only wanted a p-packet of
crisps." (With my apologies to Richard.)
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The pub was wisely divided into different drinking areas. Working
men in dirty clothes stayed in the back entrance hall and were
expected to leave by 7pm. There was an open bar area, with plain
linoleum, where anyone else could stand, then three distinct rooms
where the patrons occupied the same seats often lunchtime,
evenings and weekends.
The Commons, like Westminster's own chamber of that name,
originally had green-coloured bench seating. There was also lino in
here and the upholstery was plain plastic. Pictures of past sporting
heroes abounded and of Blackpool's Wembley triumph. There was
an informal atmosphere and as much banter as in Parliament,
though better natured. Dominoes was the big game and I recall one
man's dog which would sit upright among the players apparently
following every move.
The Smoking Room was the front lounge, with blue carpeting and
fabric upholstery and oil paintings of sailing ships and famous
theatrical or royal personages. The atmosphere was muted, suitable
for thoughtful pipe smokers discussing the day's events or reading
paperes.
Last, but not at all least, was the Lords. This was decked out in red
and there were pictures of members of the former Marton Council,
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which used to meet in the room. The Lords was for the elite of
regulars and was, I'm sorry to report ladies, the last to admit
women.
"I used to be able to bring my dog in here but not the wife,"
lamented one old chap to me. "Now it's t'other way around." He
shook his head sadly. "I much preferred it afore." Each room had its
own fire and conventions, as well as its own waiter - summoned by
bell presses which remain but sadly no longer bring service.
Much of the tradition, however, continued under the next landlord,
the highly regarded former policeman John
Moore. He was a veteran of the Honourable
Order of Bass Drinkers (to be outlined later)
and with several attractive daughters sharing
his upstairs quarters.
"I used to be a waiter in the Commons," a
cheerful regular told me while getting a round of drinks for his
friends. "My older brother did the Lords but I was only allowed in
there if he asked the regulars' permission."
I noticed he went back into the Lords and, with time, he eventually
invited me to join his company - now largely deceased.
Ever a man of the people, however, I've enjoyed all the rooms as
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well as those diverse characters in them.
You'll meet them yourself very soon - even the dead ones.
Cheers!
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3. An Uncommon Lot
PERHAPS the greatest characters in the Saddle Inn at Great
Marton, Blackpool's oldest pub, were in its cosy back room, the
Commons. This rattled daily to the sound of dominoes, hearty wit
and mutterings over horse races lost and won.
Regulars tended to sit in the same places. To the left as you went in
was Dave the Cap, so called as he never removed the flat cap he
wore at a jaunty angle. There he would sit, pint of Special bitter to
hand, staring across into the glowing coals; never saying much, just
chewing on gum and offering a wry smile from time to time. I think
he was a council gardener so he had lots of time on his hands and,
apparently, much to smile about back then in the 70s. Also usually
on the left of the room was Bill the Neck, so called because his neck
was locked in downward position by spondylitis or chronic arthritis.
Whatever the cause, he could only look at you by literally bending
over backwards or by casting a wary sideways glance as though
doubting your veracity. Older locals claimed Bill had been given the
choice of his neck being permanently set upright in normal position
or looking down, and had chosen the latter so he would notice if he
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dropped any coins. Somehow I doubt this theory and can also
report that, owing perhaps to the friendliness of the Commons and
satisfactory quality of the Bass, Bill always seemed in good cheer
despite his medical setback.
Among other characters was Burt Knight, retired master decorator
who had painted all the resort's piers. Burt had a weeping eye that
he put down to being ill-treated as a Japanese Prisoner of War. He
walked everywhere at fast pace, had a ready smile and often a
funny tale to tell, while also penning wry ditties that appeared
regularly in the Gazette's letter pages. In semi-retirement he
would only take on jobs at houses where he
could see and, therefore, readily reach the
Saddle and its neighbouring bookies. One of
Burt's last jobs was the front of Edmonds
Towers, where a careless pensioner coming
along the pavement in an electric
wheelchair bumped his ladder. Burt shouted down a severe warning
that incensed the wheelchair occupier - who backed up then
knocked away the ladders entirely. Burt was left swinging by one
hand from an upper casement, until saved by a watching joiner who
rushed over the road. Burt survived that but not for long. . . his
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ashes are scattered in the Saddle's beer garden.
Finally, in this round-up, on the right of the Commons was Pete the
Prawn. (His occasional companion Derek the Window Cleaner
warrants a whole section.) Peter, an angry man who did not suffer
fools, had a tan from his allotments, fishing and regular jaunts to
Spain. He would often bring in prawns he'd fished locally for others
to taste and buy. The Saddle back then wisely served no food.
However, Peter also used his position by the fire to bake potatoes
wrapped in foil. The management (by then the more easy going
John Moore) kept salt and butter behind the bar for his use. The
Prawn repaid this kindness by chastising ignorant youngsters who
put their feet up on the upholstery or telling any ill-mannered
drinkers to sling their hooks. Quite right, I hear you cheer, and tell
us more. . .
Crazy Derek, Storming Norman and even Mandela Man will follow.
4. Good Neighbours
WHEN I first came to live in Great Marton most of the neighbours
had lived there for many years. I learned that, a little further along
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Preston Old Road than the Saddle Inn, the now-quiet Boar's Head
had once been the hub of social life for Blackpool residents.
"In't past days," one old timer told me, "soccer legend Stanley
Mortensen used to pop in for a pint - straight after he'd played. His
hair w’er still wet from shower!"
The Boar's Head's spacious Fylde Room was packed on a Saturday
night, waiters would ply their trade and that was the place to be
seen. It hadn't mattered back then that there was only a small car
park.
When I first visited, in the late 1970s, the Boar's landlord was Big
Max - noted more for a wicked wit than for keeping beer lines
clean. (“My job,” he told me later, “was to play dominoes and curse
the customers, my wife did everything else.”) However, in fairness,
the Tetleys bitter was not the stuff of old - but now brewed in
Warrington and, consequently, missing that sparkling Yorkshire
water.
By 1990 when I took up residence at Edmonds Towers, only a
handful of regulars gathered in the Boar's. The managers were
amiable couple Tom and Lesley. Max would occasionally still
entertain us there, along with the outrageous John Ashton, head of
music at a local academy and a Rolls Royce-driving, cape-
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wearing eccentric.
But I most remember Old George. George was
always dressed in suit, tie and overcoat, sat alone to
read the paper quietly and drank mild slowly. He was poor but
proud and had a caustic wit while talking much sense. No one used
to mention that landlord Tom gave George his Christmas meal free
of charge - but we all knew.
Locals knew most things then in fact. Mrs Bridge, an ancient widow
living next to the Towers, could be relied to spot any stranger
hanging around suspiciously. She had run a chip shop where a
Chinese takeaway later stood, on the site of what was once the Lord
Nelson alehouse.
Her son, Ron, was middle-aged and well spoken but another
eccentric given to outspokenness when "in drink". "Those Chinese -
dreadful people," he would mutter into his pint. But, it turned out,
he did not mean the pleasant family then making an unexpected
success of his parents' former chippy. "I fought them in Korea -
terrible, the things they did."
After Mrs Bridge died, things went downhill fast for poor Ron. I
sometimes returned late to the Towers on a weekend evening and
saw Ron's front door still open wide on to the busy pavement.
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Inside, he would be asleep in his armchair by the fire - a tea cosy on
his head for warmth and a half-finished bottle of whisky before him.
I would quietly shut the door from without and retire, chastened.
Visiting friends knew things were getting out of hand when they
caught Ron cutting up wads of fivers with his kitchen scissors.
Apparently he had money stashed all about the old place.
"I don't want my relatives getting their hands on it," he'd explain.
Fortunately, he was persuaded to leave it to charity. By then he was
going down fast but still reasonable enough company for a while in
the Saddle. There, or anywhere now, he was never to be seen
without his flat cap on (the tea cosy having disappeared). Rumour
had it he even wore it to bed.
A fall outside the pub proved Ron's final undoing.
A friend came back from visiting him in Victoria Hospital, with a
mournful shake of her head.
"He's in a bad way with an oxygen mask," she reported to the
regulars.
"Still," she added, with a sympathetic, little laugh, "he still had on
his flat hat."
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5. Derek the Window Cleaner
A MEMORABLE character from the room known as the Commons in
Blackpool's oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, was Derek the Window
Cleaner. He could be found by the coal fire in there, genially
supping Draught Bass, most weekday afternoons come early
evenings.
Derek was a tall, rangy man with dark hair, poor teeth and a
winning way about him. His window cleaning round took in many
shops and offices round South Shore and also here in Great Marton
where he ended at the beloved Saddle. He even claimed to have
keys to the Oxford Square NatWest bank, so he could spruce up the
windows before customers and staff arrived. I don't know the truth
of this, but the bank has now closed down and Derek hasn't been
seen in these parts for years. . .
He lived during the week in a caravan by the Marton mushroom
farm, shared with a couple of mongrel sheepdogs from home. Home
was Appleby in Cumbria where his wife and he lived above a wool
and knick-knack shop she ran.
"She can't stand me being around for more than a weekend," he
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explained.
But it was playing the trumpet for Eartha Kitt and surviving on
Reichstag rice pudding from the Second World War which made
Derek really unique.
"I just play when some big star's in town and they need more
musicians at Opera House," he told me modestly one wet, wintry
afternoon. "I've played with 'em all, but Eartha Kitt was best - really
looked after us. She'd lay on a party
at end of week - and get a crate of
whisky in 'specially for band'. Grand
lass . . ." (here Derek's buckled teeth
almost glittered)
“ . . . and right sexy too!"
Derek dined mainly in the caravan on
war-surplus rice pudding. "Beautiful stuff - all you need. Not ours
but the Nazis' - the tins have a Reichstag stamp on. Can't remember
where I got 'em now, but dogs love it too."
However, Derek truly became a Saddle legend when he accepted a
challenge to leave his old estate car by the caravan one weekend -
and cycle home to Appleby. Being no spring chicken, he took his
time over this marathon task and set off from Great Marton in early
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morning.
"I couldn't resist stopping at a few pubs on't way, though," he
confessed.
However, by late afternoon come early evening he had wound his
wobbly way as far as his local at Appleby, which by good luck was
just opening.
"No one there believed I'd cycled it," he recalled with a grin, "till
my lad came by and said, 'By 'eck dad! Thought it were your bike
outside - where's car then, still at Blackpool?"
Derek so enjoyed his day's cycling - without the ladder and buckets
he usually carried - he repeated the feat just weeks later with
similar results. He wasn't a lad to do things by half!
6. Storming Norman
HAPPILY, Norm is still with us at the Saddle Inn at Great Marton,
Blackpool's oldest hostelry. Clad in several layers for all seasons,
'Storming's' trim beard and felt hat (complete with fishing flies) add
a touch of style and character. In the past Norman cut a still dapper
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figure, when behind his skins with cravat, tweed jacket, cigarette
holder and twinkling eye as drummer for the legendary Fylde Coast
Jazzmen.
He visited Edmonds Towers once, to look at a dodgy wardrobe door.
Unfortunately, I wasn't there.
"Are you the joiner?" inquired She Who Knows.
"Cabinetmaker!" responded Norman, insulted, and marched in and
upstairs.
Unfortunately, our vinyl finished, sliding doors were not his cup of
tea and he couldn't help us out.
"Personally," he confided rather bravely to She Who, "I wouldn't
give such furniture house room."
But it's the thought that counts and
Norman, over many decades, has always
been happy to give friendly advice to
younger patrons of the pub, as well as
supplying tinder for its coal fires.
Besides his woodwork and drum skills, Norm is also a master fly
fisherman, can deftly handle dominoes or cards and all without a
complete thumb (lost in an early, hard-taught lesson at the lathe).
"Storming", known for his fighting spirit, is also a champion and
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living advertisement for Draught Bass. This he imbibes from a
pewter mug presented in admiration and fondness on his 70th from
his many friends at the Saddle.
And long may he sup.
7. "Honourable" Order
WHEN retired copper, big John Moore was landlord at the Saddle
Inn here at Great Marton, strange secret meetings were
occasionally witnessed in the front smoking room of Blackpool's
oldest hostelry.
This was not, however, some Victorian lodge leftover from his days
with the Manchester force but more from running that city's
historic Town Hall Tavern, also owned by brewers Bass.
The portly, club tie-wearing men bussed in
for these cloistered but boisterous
gatherings were none other than the
Honourable Order of Bass Drinkers.
The Order was formed in Manchester from
among policemen, newspapermen and
licencees whose joint passion was the consuming of Draught Bass.
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This they did from pints, since it was forbidden in the Order to
drink from halves. (This rule consequently excluded Saddle regular
"Two Halves Derek", who had been told by his doctor to "switch to
halves" to reduce his blood pressure and who had, ever since,
scrupulously ordered and drank two halves at his every visit to the
bar.)
A barrel of its finest cask was sent by the Burton-based brewery to
be consumed by members at each meeting and the landlord
provided butties or pies. The Order, formed many years before the
Campaign for Real Ale, proudly continues to this day. When the
larger Camra group invited it to affiliate, the Order responded in
typically cussed fashion by suggesting Camra join the HOBD - as I
did one dark, unguarded evening in Manchester, where it met back
then at the Unicorn pub.
We had travelled in a hired Blackpool Handybus, made handier by
bus inspectors who were Order members. After a short speech
explaining myself, everyone at the meeting voted unanimously
against my joining - which automatically made me a member. This
was typical of the perverse thinking of the Order, where the
treasurer would be booed if any monies remained in the coffers. At
regular intervals the meeting's proceedings (usually involving
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freeloading approaches to the brewery or news of distant inns
displaying the red triangle emblem of Draught Bass) were
interrupted by a chorus of "Gerremin!" - to refresh members'
throats and stretch legs.
Their tie, by the way, boasted the red triangle and a single stripe.
"We also do one with two stripes," treasurer Terry Batty (Senior)
informed me.
"Oh, how do you get one of those?" asked I.
"Die," he said. "They're only awarded posthumously - to the widow."
Unfortunately, as the Order meets only on first Mondays of the
month and then more often in Manchester than Blackpool, I decided
to resign and sent a suitably composed letter. But I'm still a
member after receiving a visit post haste by then chairman, haulier
Richard Brigg.
"You can't resign," he said, "it's against the rules."
8. Bob the Brush
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RESPECTED elder tradesman Robert Townsend, better known in
Great Marton and through Blackpool as "Bob the Brush", typifies
the best of a dying breed of artisans. Bob was also the inspiration
behind my murder mystery novel Advantage Love (see Feelgood
Books on royedmonds-blackpool.com).
He's a quiet but friendly character of
shortish, stocky build (perfect for edging
around ladders or, indeed, balancing one with
a couple of pots of paints) and wears his
trade proudly. Have you noticed how painters and decorators
always have spatters of white paint on their working clothes? But
Bob never got paint anywhere it wasn't wanted. I know because
he's refreshed She Who Knows' colour schemes at Edmonds Towers
- in a skilled, respectful working style now almost unique.
Bob's a gentle man in all senses of those words, but can look after
himself. He's done a bit with the gloves over the years, and that's
not painting. He learned his craft with large decorating firms from
the resort's past, including fellow Saddle Inn regular Burt Knight
(see 3.An Uncommon Lot earlier).
"But they changed, as younger men took over," he explains with
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heartfelt regret. In recent years he worked mostly alone, despite
not driving.
"They just didn't have respect for people's homes, or do the job
right," he explains, "it embarrassed me to be associated with them."
Bob has his code, instilled from years ago in true tradesman
tradition.
"I never smoke in people's houses and only go into rooms where I'm
working. If you invite me to make a brew, then I would use the
kitchen - but not otherwise. If I want a smoke I go outside."
Neither does Bob require a radio blasting away to do his work. He
doesn't disappear halfway through a job and always leaves your
place tidy.
It's a pleasure having him in the house, as it is sharing a drink and
chat. At the Saddle, here in Great Marton, there were many such
tradesmen once. Men proud of their craft but also respectful of
others. They often appeared for a quick one or two after finishing a
job, standing discreetly by the doorway - not wishing to dirty
upholstery or get in others' way. Later they might return, showered
and changed and with their wives to socialise.
They gave you a fair price for a job and did it honestly to the best of
their considerable abilities. Sadly, we won't see their like again.
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9. Room for Change
THE motto of Blackpool Corporation is Progress and that dynamic,
along with a brash showmanship and canny eye for trade, made this
seaside town Europe's premier resort. Besides, as we all know or
soon learn, time and tide wait for no man.
So it was that Blackpool's oldest pub, the quaint but stubbornly old-
fashioned Saddle Inn at proud Great Marton, was ripe for change.
Or so, at least, its owner the brewer Bass decided.
For decades the pub's back room, called the Commons, had echoed
to the robust humour of working men and their gals; the rattle of
domies, and crackle of a real coal fire. And so, fortunately, it more
or less remains to this day. The walls still display pictures of
sporting greats (though quite a few have disappeared during bouts
of redecoration), and the only gesture to modern life is a discreet,
flat-screen telly showing horse racing.
No, as ever, it was the soft middle classes who took the brunt of
change. The law and new landlords had already made alterations to
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the pub's other rooms. Marton's council no longer existed, so its
leading lights no longer held court in the cosiest haven, the Lords.
Also, discrimination laws in the late 70s meant it had to admit
women.
But the room still had its regulars at lunchtimes, "early doors" and
evenings. These included Stan, a Glaswegian police inspector who
used to happily escort other drivers home who'd had a few too
many; then there was a retired but hearty farmer and wife who
together filled an entire corner. But all would join in a cross-room
chat while always sitting in their usual seats.
Similarly, the pub's front "Smoking Room"
was kept like a best lounge for those wanting
a quiet chat or bit of peace. This, ironically,
was converted into a non-smoking room by
popular managers Don and Pam Ashton.
Equally controversially, they introduced food so a serving hatch
now appeared in the bar area and, sadly, dogs were banned to meet
hygiene requirements.
To be fair, the couple were ahead of their time and also started the
Saddle's legendary beer festivals in a car park marquee.
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However, the changes drove away many veterans, such as Two
Halves Derick or the quiet but stern Special Branch officer Mike.
Thus it was that a change came over the place's atmosphere and
standards slipped - resulting in more swearing and swaggering
newcomers and less respect for old regulars (well, Mike had been
known to carry a gun!)
Former pub stalwarts now took refuge up the road in Marton
Institute (still run strictly and offering cheaper cask ale). Hence the
expression becoming "institute-nalised".
However, the most dramatic change came earlier in big John
Moore's reign. During an expensive makeover when the bar's
linoleum was replaced by fancy quarry tiles, the Lords' door and
separating wall also disappeared, along with the open stairs where
John and his bevy of daughters had long stood.
True, it made the pub appear larger but this extra space only
appeared to attract more standing drinkers and, horror of horrors,
various one-armed bandits coining more cash for the brewery.
(Fortunately the worst, those with twinkling lights or silly theme
music, were regularly switched off by regulars with a crafty flick of
their heels to the plug-switches.)
Finally, the old drinking times were swept away by new licensing
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laws. People no longer had to restrict their socialising to lunch or
evening - the pub was open all day. While this offered flexibility, one
could no longer expect to see the same people at a similar time
each day. Also, it was difficult for staff to keep the place spruced up
and, of course, there were those who simply drank too much. Yes,
folks, ‘progress’ had arrived.
10. Mandela Man
WHEN brewery alterations opened up the Lords, that most
hallowed room in the Saddle Inn at Great Marton, one man voiced
the concerns of many.
"Look at the people getting in here now!" said
Peter, with a disgusted look round the
crowded bar.
He himself was an impressive sight: standing
six foot tall and solid, big shoulders back and
chest out. He had a massive head, quite bald,
and his weathered face was rounded off in a
bristly red beard. He stood just inside the
doorway, legs firmly apart as though braced
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against the elements; wearing sheepskin boots, cords and checked
shirt. He reminded me of one of those stubborn, tough, Boer
farmers, or a trapper and frontiersman from the Wild West.
"They're all a***holes!" he concluded and not in any whisper.
Newcomers and ne'er-do-wells who did meet his fierce countenance
quickly looked away. He would glare, watching them with contempt
for a while, then return silently to his pint of mild.
We had got chatting one evening and tended to meet up by routine,
early on a Saturday night. More recently he has turned to the
Institute down the road for like-minded companionship, but we
occasionally bump into each other in Stanley Park where he walks
his wiry hound. He's always friendly but is a no-nonsense sort of
man and, needless to say, far from politically correct.
I admired him for standing his ground, particularly one night when
a couple of young men - not regulars - were swearing loudly and
obviously offending old ladies on a nearby table.
Peter warned them to watch their language but they only stared in
disbelief then, minutes later, carried on.
"Hold that," he muttered to me, handing over his pint.
"Right, you two, out!" he ordered the offending pair, picking up
their drinks and putting them on the bar in front of a bewildered
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barmaid, then stood in his usual braced pose. They left.
No, he wasn't a man for winds of change, as Macmillan had called
the sweep of reform through Africa and the Third World. Like many
old-timers then in the Saddle, he was a hang-em high, right of
Genghis Khan sort of guy.
On the night he acquired his nickname, most of the world had been
watching the release of world statesman Nelson Mandela from his
long penury in South Africa. The great man was being honoured in
Wembley by a galaxy of leaders and celebrities. To tell the truth,
the historic moment brought tears to my eyes as I watched it unfold
on television.
So I was a bit later than usual to the Saddle that Saturday.
As I entered its portals, however, a familiar figure filled the
entrance hall.
"Sorry I'm late," I gushed, still flushed from the moving events,
"been watching the welcome for Nelson Mandela."
The big, ruddy face stared down at me then frowned. Surely he
understood who I meant, the whole world now knew of the great
African and his lifelong crusade for freedom.
Peter's face set and he shook his head in dismay, before
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pronouncing grimly:
"They should have shot that bastard, as soon as they caught him."
12. Yank in the Saddle
BY the early 1990s Blackpool's oldest inn at Great Marton was
being opened up to big changes. Its annual beer festival marquee
brought in hundreds of extra drinkers and annoyed locals who had
nowhere to park. But one newcomer stood out . . . behind the bar.
Greg, a giant Californian, had come on holiday courting a local girl
and also fallen in love with the cosy, old inn. It was where his future
mother-in-law had been a barmaid and his father-in-law Big John
the Rock Maker (Blackpool confectionery, that is) drank nightly.
Although a highly paid resort manager from the West Coast, Greg
left it all behind and became an assistant manager at the pub.
Besides his devotion to Draught Bass, Greg also brought American
style service to the old hostelry.
Downtrodden locals would shuffle in from the rain for a pint and be
rocked back on their heels by his sunshine manner.
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"Good afternoon, sir!" Greg would greet them. "And how are you
today?"
"Not bad, ta," came the muttered response, followed by a polite,
"and y'self?"
"Fabulous sir!" Greg would declare. "And what can I serve you with
today? Bitter? Why certainly, sir. We have six excellent cask ales to
choose from and that king of beers itself,
Draught Bass. What would be your
pleasure? Bass? Good choice, sir!"
It was like a breath of fresh air, which
inspired the young, local staff and added a
cosmopolitan air to Great Marton's
favourite watering hole. Greg was also large enough to quell any
noisy troublemakers with one warning glance, rather like a
gunslinger of old.
Sadly, the brewery never did appreciate his talents to the full.
Gregg and his lovely wife eventually went back stateside. But they
still make a regular pilgrimage to this coast and his first question is
always the same.
"How is the Bass?"
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12. Rough 'n' Ready
LIKE society in general, the times of the toffs have gone at Great
Marton's once cosy Saddle. Regulars used to include doctors,
architects, senior policemen, company directors and (of course)
journalists. But now it's the age of the working man. Just as in the
New World, as they call our old colonies, every one's equal these
days - just all guys together in the States,
or blokes in Australia. That's as it should
be but can also be boring.
Round in what was once the Lords room
of the Saddle, is now what I call Builders'
Corner of its L-shaped bar - with plasterers, joiners, painters and
brickies comparing work stories and golf handicaps.
Funnily enough, electricians seem to congregate separately to enjoy
whatever switches them on.
Meanwhile, in the Commons, a retired, old salt or navyman and
former coal miner reign or, at least, manage the remote control to
watch racing (minus volume - thankfully). Also, the former Smoking
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Room is mostly for diners these days.
Fortunately, if you're looking for diversity there are characters
aplenty (plus advice on DIY) among this down-to-earth crowd.
However, none was more colourful that the late J.R.
To start with, J.R. came from the now non-existent Westmorland in
the Lakes, complete with a whining country accent that cut the
urban air like one of his angle grinders.
However, by the time he passed on in his 60s - while still bragging
he'd outlive us all - a coachload plus many cars of mourners
followed him from Blackpool to where he was buried, by Ullswater
and his native fells.
J.R. was a hustler at dominoes, no slouch with the ladies and a fund
of wry tales told with a merry gleam in his well-weathered eyes. He
was also a highly skilled stonemason and Jack of All Trades.
"One thing I always regret," he told me, "was a stone I replaced in
Carlisle Cathedral spire. Didn't take time and do it just right - aih!"
he wailed, "I were younger then and in a rush, y'see." Here he
shook his head in dismay. "Makes me fair cringe every time I drive
by, it does."
J.R. needn't have worried.
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His memory and name are secure in the Saddle annals.
By reputation at least, he is likely to outlive us all.
13. A Barmaid's Smile
OVER the years the Saddle Inn has won many awards for its beer
and traditional style. Landlords, notably Don Ashton who started
the legendary beer festivals and more recently real ale fan and
popular Fleetwood lad Alan Bedford, have
been lauded by the Campaign for Real Ale
and others.
However, for most patrons it's the bar staff
who, along with a drop of what they fancy,
bring solace and cheer.
"Served with a smile as wide as a barmaid's buttocks!" might have
rung true in old days, when barmaids were often matronly as well
as comely. But nowadays bar staff have slimmed down (with a few
lovable exceptions) and glammed up - and that's just the boys!
For many years they have put up with grumbles from diehards
demanding their tankards be filled to the brim, smiled at the same
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jokes and taken only 10p "for themselves" (now finally risen to 20p).
They're invariably loyal, willing to dress up in fancy dress when
required and look after the regulars better than the breweries or
pub managing companies.
How can we thank them? Raise anew our glass and say "cheers".
14. Taking the Mick
SADLY the Saddle Inn is no longer the remarkably unspoiled and
cosy pub so cherished by locals and admired along the coast and
beyond.
It was once the flagship of brewer Bass. Yet now its premier ale
Draught Bass - heartily prescribed by
Blackpool's leading bowel consultant - is
sometimes unavailable. Such unthinkable
omissions have caused havoc with the
digestion of regulars such as Storming
Norman who have drunk little else for half a
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century.
Even the pub's proud welcoming signs have been replaced by tacky
posters promoting cheap booze, bust-a-gut bargain grub and
gambling-arcade scams.
Yet, inside those once hallowed
portals, the much-loved hand-pumps
still stand proud - along with many
long-serving patrons.
Quality beer - and characters - remain
and still make the inn a pleasure to visit.
Its front "smoking room", as was, is now mainly a dining room with
a fragrance similar to the nearby chippy, and often attracting
groups who appear suitable cases for care in the community. The
recklessly enlarged, L-shaped bar was described on one real ale
website as "a bear pit".
Fortunately, the old Commons room remains a relative haven for
convivial chat, chess and studying horse racing form before a stroll
across Whitegate Drive to the bookies.
For my own part there is my corner in the late afternoon or early
evening. We put up with the flat-screen telly just above our heads
as its sound has thankfully been turned off. From this vantage point
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one can spot - and exchange greetings with if desired - all those
entering front and rear doors, or visiting the conveniences, while
also admiring the barmaids. Yet it is still possible, while idly leaning
there, to sidestep any bores.
Regulars are known to each other by first names and jobs or other
identifying features. By far the most popular moniker is Mick.
There's Little Mick, Window-cleaner Mick, Tiler Mick, Karen's Mick
(previously Mick the Plasterer before retiring), Train Driver Mick
(formerly Ponytail Mick, prior to going spiky and changing jobs)
and, not least, the longest-serving,
most loyal patron, Original Mick.
Beneath our feet the floor was once
plain, honest linoleum. But now, after
several short-sighted makeovers, it is
a malodorous, black mulch that was
once premium Axminster. You
wouldn't use these remains to carpet a kennel but the Micks
gamefully put up with it.
You see, they've grown used to the powers that be taking the Mick.
Some regulars say the Saddle's slide started when the the bar was
enlarged by opening the old Lords room; then gaming machines
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appeared; meals began being served; loudspeakers rattled from
walls, and tellies in corners. They even took away our stained glass
windows, lost original paintings and cartoons, painted tastelessly
over old woodwork and, incredibly, were only
stopped from taking out the hand-pumps by
manager Don Ashton.
Fortunately, a pool table would not fit through the old pub's doors;
preposterous karaoke sessions were outlawed after noise
complaints; unwelcome donkey rides and bouncy castles have
disappeared from the beer garden, while regulars have craftily
disconnected or switched off more annoying electronic gadgets.
Despite all the inappropriate and ill-considered changes from
brewers, harassed managers and profit-chasing pub chains, some of
the original pleasures of the inn remain.
The Saddle along with nearby St Paul's remain at the heart of Great
Marton. Even today you can expect a friendly welcome, though the
regulars change according to time of day. There remain fine ales,
coal fires in winter and a down-to-earth chat with ready laughter
while, beyond its old windows, the nether world of breezy Blackpool
rolls by.
That stuffed saddle which once hung above the entrance may now
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be gone, but our coast's most historic stabling inn still refreshes
parts others cannot reach.
So, mount up and mosey on down!
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