A Seafarers’ Boozer
Thank God, there is hope. The end of civilisation is not upon us quite yet. A leading light still shines – powered by divine intervention no less. After a lifetime watching the demise of the English harbour pub at the rapacious hands of brewery corporate-image and morons, I can report that one unspoiled, simple, honest-to-goodness, straightforward seafarers’ boozer still survives… and that, most definitely, is in the hands of a man of God.
Pint-pulling Priest
Reverend Barrington Bennetts is landlord of the ‘Seven Stars’ in Falmouth, he also regularly takes the Sunday service and gives Communion at Falmouth Parish Church up the road, before nipping back behind the bar to pull pints of draught Bass – oh, such a Heavenly pint of draught Bass – straight from the barrel.
Now, having devoted a goodly part of my spells ashore in search of a decent harbour pub, I can say with absolute conviction that no cruising sailor should tie up in Falmouth without squaring away for the ‘Seven Stars’. It is a jewel among public houses, an institution. A place where, after an arduous passage, a sailor can relax. There’s no thumping juke box with speakers blasting from every corner, no fruit machine flashing and whining against the wall, no imitation wooden beams and plastic horse brasses, no gimmicks, themes, pool table, wide-screen TV, or karaoke – nothing. Nothing that is, except decent ale and good conversation – and woe betide the customer who uses a mobile phone in the bar of the ‘Seven Stars’.
Talking to the locals – well out of Barrington’s sensitive earshot – you soon realise that he is the least sanctimonious of Godly men. A man equally happy with a chalice or a pint pot in his hand. I particularly liked the story – it might even be true – about the time he was wearing his clerical collar and distractedly pulling a customer’s pint. His attention was held by another customer who was talking absolute rot further down the bar. Finally, getting redder and redder in the face, Barrington could stand it no longer. He tore off his dog collar and exploded loudly, “B*ll*cks!”
Uproar in the Bar
“I don’t like foul language,” says Barrington, “Never have. That’s one reason why dogs are totally banned, ever since we had five of ‘em fighting in the bar. It started when one miscreant, a lurcher, flew off a seat and attacked an alsatian. The place was in uproar – language was terrible.”
The ‘Seven Stars’ was named after the seven stars in the Plough. It was first licensed in October 1666, but the building is believed to be even older and to have been built as a grain store. Back in 1850, the then landlord lost his licence for watering the beer.
Today the bar can have changed little for a very long time. The ceiling and walls have an ageless smoky patina you couldn’t buy or imitate. There are wooden cut-outs of boats and a clock that only runs to GMT. Behind the bar is a stillage with kegs of Bass, Sharp’s Special, and Cornish ‘Knocker’ Ale. Barrington’s Marmite Scout camping badges are framed and hung up in the snug. There’s just an old rug on the floor and the furniture is nothing to write home about, but during opening hours, the place is alive with banter and mischief. Each Sunday lunchtime the customers are treated to plates of cheese, biscuits and home-made sausage rolls; all part of the service. Three years ago, CAMRA, The Campaign for Real Ale, declared that the ‘Seven Stars’ was the only true pub left in Cornwall.
The Manacles
Although it is tucked away behind the post office, and some way from the waterside, in this seafaring town, the ‘Seven Stars’ has always had maritime connections and sailors seem to find their way there as if their course has been set by compass bearings. When I met him Jim Morrison was 85 and he told me he’d been going into the ‘Seven Stars’ since he was 15. His father used the pub before him. Jim had only recently sold his old gaff cutter, ‘Mayfair’ after a lifetime of fishing and oyster dredging. We sat in the snug and talked about the pub and boats and the inside passage through the notorious Manacles rocks.
“My father would never pass the door of the pub, especially when we had just got in from sea. The atmosphere is what makes it here, it’s all good conversation, and Barrington’s a good old boy. I don’t know that him being a priest makes any difference, but the Cornish fishermen have their own prayer, you know. It comes from the days when most of our pilchards where exported to catholic countries like Italy and Portugal. They wouldn’t eat meat during Lent and we always wanted ‘em to buy more fish:
“Here’s health to the Pope,
And may he relent,
And add six more months to the season of Lent,
And tell all his vassals,
From Rome to the Poles,
There’s nothing like pilchards for saving the souls.”
Jim laughed mischievously and then spoke seriously in his deep Cornish dialect – “I do ‘ope that don’t offend no one, mind. It’s meant as a bit ‘o fun”.
Black Bogie
When he’s not in the pub, customers will find The Reverend Barrington Bennetts next door in his tobacconist shop, another little time capsule of delights – but dangerous ground for a reformed smoker. The rich smell of the exotic tobaccos and the essence of scented snuffs is more temptation that most will resist. Here you can buy everything from a curvaceous Big Ben briar, a Turkish Meerschaum, a tin of Dunhill’s ‘Nightcap’, to an ounce of ‘Burkum Riff’ ready rubbed, or Black Bogie Irish Twist. There’s ‘Gawith Apricot Snuff’, ‘Bull Brand’ cigarette papers, cigarette cases and cigar boxes, lighters and ‘Ideal Pipe Companions’. And there Barrington sits behind the counter dispensing the smoker’s paraphernalia and chatting to the addicts about the merits of various tobaccos while offering tips on how to repair the broken stem of a customer’s favourite pipe.
Rev Barrington talks of the sense of fulfilment he enjoys as a priest, but what, I asked, gives him most satisfaction as the licensee of a pub like the ‘Seven Stars’? “Just helping people, really,” he told me. “Simple things like when a stranger comes in a bit lost and I’m able to direct him on his way. Best of all is when someone downs a pint then tells me that’s the best pint they’ve ever tasted.”
And here’s my very own little prayer for the return of the real seafarers’ boozer, where music and TV is banned and conversation rules. It is best recited in company after a couple of pints:
Salty Yarns – a poem
God bless the house selling fine English beer,
For it’s there by the stars and my compass I’ll steer,
Where music is barred, no phones or TV,
That drown conversation, and make an island of me.
After long days at sea with the waves all a’hissing,
It’s convivial banter with a pint that I’m missing.
So God bless the house with good ale and no din,
Where a sailor can sup hearty and find haven within.
God bless public houses where the ruling is clear:
Leave the dribble on your mobile well astern of in here,
Tell your seafaring stories and your salty yarns tall,
But turn on the music and you’ll learn bugger all.
Philip Dunn
With the greatest respect to Reverend Barrington Bennetts, who died aged 79 on Christmas Eve 2011. He was much loved in Falmouth and far beyond.
This story was written some 20 years ago, and published in a yachting newspaper. Here’s a link to the Seven Star’s website..
Seven Stars Falmouth
