The Dun Cow, Durham, 1997
Part two
If you missed part one, you can read it here.
The ‘sliding door’ was literally that, not dissimilar to the accommodation across the road at HMP Durham.
After negotiating a tricky downhill ramp, the main and only room opened up. The bar was to the left, and three tables huddled beneath the bay window to the right. Two of the three tables housed enthusiastic discourse, which I left on the periphery of my attention. First to get situated.
As it happened, the far table offered an unobstructed view of possibly the smallest bar TV I had ever seen. It was my lot, no point moaning.
Inexcusably, I had forgotten to order a drink. The gathering to my left was 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. I suspected it was a continuation from the night before.
The bar was wide enough to have four stools, all standing to attention. They were vacant; however, the condition of their upholstery suggested they had seen plenty of customers over the journey. Sitting here would afford a decent view of the TV, but then the opportunity to converse with the staff—a staff of one!
The one would be our future babysitter, Jennifer Whitfield, landlady of The Dun Cow. Clearly, I didn’t know this at the time. What a stroke of luck, though. Jen was an absolute treasure. And the landlord? Alan Whitfield, who, and this was often the case, was on the wrong side of the bar, or the best side for him.
The opening stanza with Jennifer went something like this:
“What will you have, like?” Possibly a leading question? I replied nervously, “Mmmm, not sure, what would you recommend?”
“Wye, the Castle Eden, like.” I was thrown by the “likes”—but, hey, stay with it. “Great, that sounds good, I’ll try a pint of the Castle Eden.” And, right there and then, an unhealthy association with Castle Eden ale began.
The Castle Eden Brewery has been a constant part of North East brewing since being founded by John Nimmo in 1826. Located in the village of Seaham, the signature brew, Castle Eden ale, had just 15 miles to travel to the Dun Cow, ensuring a constant fresh pint if Jen was pulling.
The perfect pint arrived, a creamy head covered the smooth-looking ale, not warm, nor cold, just right. “Thank you,” I mumbled, and retreated to the corner table. The minuscule TV was showing a BBC gardening show with the sound turned way down. Returning to the bar, more confident than before, I asked Jen if the channel might be changed to the football.
“Who’s playing, like?” “Mmmm, Manchester City, I think?” I knew full well who was playing, just lacked some nuts if truth be told. “Wye 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.
From the landlord—Whitfield—“Who’s playing, like?” Alan wore a beard, was likely fifty-odd years old, impeccably turned out, and someone who looked fairly important in the scheme of things.
“Bloody Man City”, Jen said. Alan replied, “Should be a canny game like, 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 slang for pissed, drunk—not an uncommon condition in the Cow.
Alan Whitfield became a great friend while we were in Durham. He was universally known as Ticket, or bloody Ticket! And why Ticket?
The short story is that he worked on the railways before taking residence at The Dun Cow. He was a conductor, the guy with the funny hat who yells, “Tickets please.” I came to understand that Ticket had little appetite for following protocols. His favourite route was the Durham-to-York return. Ticket was always in good form on the outbound part; it was the return part where he took some liberties, often disembarking to have a pint before catching the train behind, eventually making it back to Durham half-mortal. His switch to the Dun Cow made perfect sense.
The game had started. City was playing OK, I was slowly getting acquainted with my pint, and the crew to my left was continuing to find their voices. It was 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.
I mentioned yesterday that this Sunday would go a long way in shaping our time in Durham, and that I didn’t really finish the story back in 2022. I should, so let’s leave it there, and I’ll aim to finish it off next weekend.
Nick
