Time Called

So Nichol’s has closed.  The tatty cardboard sign may say “Closed for refurbishment” but nobody’s fooled.  It’s closed.  And that’s sad news and when I heard it I didn’t believe it.  I drove the short highway distance to investigate and read the sign for myself.  Then I peered through the windows into the gloomy interior that had been stripped of most furniture and décor.  I saw, and believed.

Nichol’s was a pub, and the closest thing to an English pub in this part of the world.  Perhaps that was due to the tenancy of Simon who moved here from London in the 1990s and created a perfect watering hole.  It was he who introduced Fullers Ale, shepherd’s pie, toad in the hole and steak and kidney pie (in addition to a good choice of burgers, steaks and fish) and who remained the genial host until his retirement in 2007.

Fallow years followed under new management.  Menus were changed and the once top-quality ingredients were replaced with lower grade meats and produce.  Staff came and went and customers drifted away, and we heard of rows and worse than rows behind the kitchen swing doors.  And then for a short while the lights were turned off.

Yet turned on again when a man with the uncertain name of Ziggy took the captain’s chair.  Burgers and burghers rebounded, and within a few weeks Nichol’s had regained its reputation for being a place where the bar and the food were excellent and affordable.

 

So what happened?  We heard of wars and rumors of wars but nothing definite.  Not that it matters.  A local institution has gone.  It was the perfect place to eat out informally without breaking the bank, and enjoy a well-kept pint of English beer.  It was where we celebrated many birthdays and took many guests.  And a reliable place to order take-away.

I will miss Nichol’s, that small un-Hamptons shack-like pub with eclectic wall décor, perfect burgers, a well-stocked bar, and possibly the best bouillabaisse I have ever eaten outside of France.

Now where?

Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

November 5^th.  Guy Fawkes Night, and although few people build and light their own bonfires these days, choosing instead to attend community events, it is still a night for traditional flames, fireworks and food.  As a boy in rural Worcestershire (and later in the grounds of the vast Victorian rectory to the north of the city) it was a most special evening.  A tall pyre was built and a guy ceremoniously placed on its top.  When the sun had set the match was struck and the flames roared to our satisfaction until the effigy of Guy Fawkes could be seen no more. My father would then take charge of the fireworks, stored for safety’s sake in large biscuit tins (the many-layered assortment kind) and the next half hour would involve rockets, Roman candles, Catherine wheels, odd triangular fireworks that showered red then blue then yellow and finally green sparks.  And lots more rockets – each sent on a specific course:  One to Fishguard, another to Llanelli, and others wherever we had family and friends.  (The fact that they landed in the nearby road was lost on our child-like enthusiasm!)  And finally my mother would appear with hot soup, rolls and sausages which we devoured as the embers of the bonfire died down.

The traditional litany for that evening was:

"Remember remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot..."

But if truth be known that was, like many "traditions", a Victorian creation.  The earliest rhyme that we are aware of dates to 1742 and begins:

Don't you Remember,
The Fifth of November,
'Twas Gunpowder Treason Day,
I let off my gun,
And made' em all run.
And Stole all their Bonfire away.

Hmm.  The Victorians were always the better hymn-writers!

The rituals of Guy Fawkes Night were more than family fun, and more than the commemoration of the foiled attack on the King and Parliament on the 5^th of November, 1605.  The historical closeness of it all lay in the fact that the Gunpowder Plot was part-conceived in the parish where my father was the rector.  This was more than history – this was our local history.

I hope that tonight, up and down the land of England, bonfires are lit, fireworks light the eyes of the young, and food is enjoyed.  And people recall their history.  Perhaps they might even like to read the Collect for Deliverance – strangely omitted from Common Worship and other modern liturgies.

O GOD, whose Name is excellent in all the earth, and thy glory above the heavens; who, on this day, didst miraculously preserve our Church and State from the secret contrivance and hellish malice of Popish Conspirators; and on this day also didst begin to give us a mightly Deliverance from the open tyranny and oppression of the same cruel and blood-thirsty enemies; We bless and adore thy glorious Majesty, as for the former, so for this thy later marvellous loving-kindness to our church and Nation, in the preservation of our Religion and Liberties. And we humbly pray that the devout sense of this thy repeated mercy may renew and increase in us a spirit of love and thankfulness to thee its only Author; a spirit of peaceable submission and obedience to our gracious Sovereign N; and a spirit of fervent zeal for our holy Religion, which thou hast so wonderfully rescued, and established a Blessing to us and our posterity. And this we beg for Jesus Christ his sake. Amen.

I wonder why.