Ale enthusiasts, unite! If we don’t use our locals we will lose them

One of the finest rituals of my Kentish pub childhood was the weekly arrival of the draymen. The big lorry reversing into the pebbled car park, two burly blokes descending from the cab in black leather aprons and rolled sleeves, before the earsplitting thunder of the barrels as they rolled towards our cellar. Dad would have opened the two big wooden doors into the dank chamber beneath our home and the draymen would expertly drop the barrels down a ramp onto a big hessian sack filled with wool. Even then, the whole house would shudder. Then the barrels “rested” for at least two days, so the hops and sediment could settle.

Our whole household revolved round tending to those precious casks. My mother was forever cleaning the pipes leading to them (neglect this task and the ale tastes off), while my brothers were sequestered to put new barrels “on tap” with a great wooden mallet that was more lethal than anything in Cluedo’s repertoire. If your aim missed, beer would spray everywhere. Although I was told the worst part was lifting the barrels from the cellar’s stone floor onto the stations because when you slipped your hand through the handles it would clamp around a family of slugs drawn there by the sugar. My brother said they squished under your fingers “like clay”.

My point is that the rigmarole involved in keeping top-notch cask ale is time-consuming and not for wimps. So I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised by this week’s news that an ever-increasing number of pubs are ditching casks for kegs, as the cost of living crisis bites. Keeping a good cellar is the very opposite of cost-effective – it’s a labour of love. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that cask ale goes stale pretty quickly because of its exposure to oxygen. So, you need to have a fine gauge of your customers’ thirst and habits, or you’ll see a ton of waste. Lastly, a hand-pump requires more skill and strength than one that flows with the help of carbon dioxide; there’s a thrilling vigour about pulling a proper pint. Real ale lovers know the difference, and you won’t get Camra’s followers in your joint unless you can demonstrate commitment. One devotee describes the keg stuff as being like the moment in Powell and Pressburger’s A Matter of Life and Death when the film goes from blazing Technicolour to black and white.

But even real ale champions are reeling at the current level of inflation. The sad truth is chain pubs with ever-changing managers – rather than old-fashioned landlords who know all their customers – are the inevitable survivors from Covid lockdowns. More traditional taverns emerged blinking from the pandemic, only to be felled by rising energy bills, astronomic grocery costs and an inability to hire good staff. Even their most devoted regulars are making economies and many will be fretting about their health. Two male friends who once mapped their lives via beer festivals have gone teetotal in the past year. It’s good news for their guts, but a disaster for publicans, not to mention their wives who like their own space.

You always imagine British treasures won’t disappear, but I used to think that about my parents’ old pub, The Fox and Hounds, which was once a local legend. As I tap out this piece it’s undergoing major works, being turned into a private residence for a rich businessman. Never has the expression “use it or lose it” seemed more like a clarion cry. We’ll all be drinking in black and white if we let the keg brigade win.