The Ribs of Beef, Norwich

The Ribs of Beef is perched on the edge of the river Wensum, with narrow balconies offering a ferryman’s-eye view of the Fye Bridge, reputed to be the city’s oldest fording place. The pub, however, has only been there since 1743.

History never seems very far below the flinty surface in Norwich, especially when your family comes from the area. For instance, the Ribs of Beef offers me the Brucie bonus of a picture of my father on the wall, in one of those long black and white photos showing 600 boys, this one taken on a sunny day in June 1960 at the City of Norwich grammar school. If you looked closely enough – and you knew what he looked like – you would see that Dad, in his characteristic black-framed glasses, is standing behind Roger Cawdron, now the Ribs’s semi-retired landlord.

When we dropped by at Christmas, Roger ambled over and asked Dad if he remembered someone scampering from one end of the picture to the other, in order to appear twice, receiving a Saturday detention for his Herculean efforts.

I returned a few days later, just in time to see a remarkable-sounding peanut butter milk stout being rubbed off the specials board. However, a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry Ale proved a robust compensation. I sat with a copy of the Eastern Daily Press, watching the river and the people flowing over it. In my shoulder bag lay a hefty hardback copy of C J Sansom’s Tudor mystery Tombland, a gift from my parents, in which protagonist Matthew Shardlake stays at the Maid’s Head hotel, just across the road, while Kett’s rebellion foments around him. A treat for later on, I thought.

Just then, a sudden kerfuffle. Returning to the bar I was passed by the chef, moving at some speed: I was told he’d just heard that his wife had gone into labour. Let’s hope that went well.