Alfred the great

FOUR of us went to Lastingham – three in body and one in spirit. Ian and Gill drove; I walked from Pickering; and the inimitable Alfred J Brown came along in my rucksack.

Brown’s 1930s book, Striding Through Yorkshire, is invariably in my bag when I go pubbing in the sticks, occasionally for research but overwhelmingly for enjoyment.

It’s a brilliant account of a life spent trekking across the Moors, Dales and Wolds, as the author displays a stamina and perseverance matched only by his passion for beer-breaks. Almost without fail, the walks are broken or followed by an enthusiastic visit to an inn or a pub, as Brown catches up on food, sleep and, most importantly, ale.

Many of the stopping points are sadly no more, but when you find one that remains, it’s fascinating to wind back the clock to see what’s changed. Or, in many cases, to marvel at what hasn’t.

Which takes us back to Lastingham, and the Blacksmith’s Arms, one of the most tremendous pubs in the North York Moors, in one of its most charming villages.

This pub has scarcely changed since Brown’s day and has lost none of its allure. At its heart is a small bar, facing a snug little room with an open fire in one wall and chairs and tables squeezed into every space. When it’s quiet it’s quaint, but when it’s full it’s abuzz, bubbling away with bar-room banter, friendly chatter and general village life.

The low-hung timber roof is adorned, beam by beam, with ageing pewter tankards, and across the walls are ye olde local scenes, the sort only found in such ye olde pubs.

Off to the right, as you enter, is a newer dining room, while through the bar the other way is a little side-room, big enough for just three tables, and where the tankards on the ceiling make way way for row upon row of Yorkshire flat caps.

The timbers are low; the lighting likewise, but standards are high and the atmosphere almost enchanting. If you could bottle and sell that, you’d make millions.

Brown was enamoured; so too were we; and it seemed the only thing that could have changed in the intervening 75 years was the beer.

On that front, Brown is uncharacteristically brief, recording only that he drank beers from “the Malton brewer”, but we were treated to a far wider range. Theakston’s Best Bitter, John Smith’s Cask, Leeds Pale Ale and Daleside Nightjar made for a commendable selection, and notably all were from within God’s own county of Yorkshire.

We each plumped for the Nightjar, and we each got a cracking pint, full of body, rich in flavour and oozing punch. It was as dark as the name would suggest, with flavours reminiscent of nuts and dried fruit. It was like a rich, home-made fruit loaf in liquid form.

It went well with the grub which was, initially at least, the reason for our visit. My pie (lamb and mint) was among the best I’ve ever had, and it’s only because the entire pub was so fantastically welcoming that I haven’t dwelt on the food more heavily.

Suffice to say, it filled us up and left us smiling, which is as good a testimonial as you can give in my book.

Alfred, in his, went a little further, writing thus: “To-day nobody could take exception to the present inn, the Blacksmith’s Arms, opposite the church, where I enjoyed cheese and ale before crossing the moors again; for that is a perfectly orderly, well-managed and hospitable little inn where I, for one, would like to stay a month of Sundays.” He and I both.

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