Saddle Up!

By Roy Edmonds

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‘Local’ history

- A taste of Blackpool’s oldest pub, through some of its colourful characters.

Copyright circa 2011

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1. The Mount

GREETINGS from the Saddle - my local hostelry and an escape

from the daily demands of this hectic world.

Computers have made us all global communicators; holidays have

long been international; our work, scattered families and distant

friends make motorway journeys routine . . . but our feet and hearts

are still neighbourhood bound.

This is never more true than after retiring, which has given me time

to concoct this ‘local’ history.

Just a couple of miles inland from blowsy Blackpool (noted for fresh

air and fun), Marton has stood much longer astride the rural Fylde

coastline of the Irish Sea. Its historic heart is Great Marton.

Stand on one of the main residential thoroughfares of Blackpool,

Whitegate Drive, by its oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, and you can still

discern the original village of Great Marton.

Beside the Saddle, which dates back to the Civil War and provided

stabling for roundhead troops, is St Paul's old churchyard. To the

pub's other side, on Preston Old Road, are tiny cottages which have

stood for more than two centuries on a winding route stagecoaches

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took to Preston.

Edmonds Towers stands a discreet distance from the Saddle, whose

more recent history and characters I hope to explore in this

appreciation. However, it's a family story of wealth and woe on its

doorstep which is my starting point.

In the 19th Century there were only a few artisan cottages on

Preston Old Road while Wren Grove, the present small cul-de-sac

near Whitegate Drive (then Whitegate Lane), was called Green

Lane. This ran down to what is now the White House, on the corner

of Lightburn Avenue, but was previously the landowner's home

Blaydon House.

My own house deeds list the tenancy dues to be paid at Blaydon

House. A chap christened Lynsey I met at Blackpool Cricket Club

was born in my home many years before I acquired it. He could

remember open fields and carthorses grazing where now other

houses stand.

What was until recently the Far East takeaway was back then the

Lord Nelson Alehouse and a tall building stood behind the area's

third pub, the old Boar's Head, which was Marton Brewery. Further

down Whitegate Lane was The Mill Inn, beside Marton Windmill,

now renamed the Oxford.

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Completing the nest of buildings in Great Marton was a church

school and infants' classrooms where new houses now stand facing

the Boars Head.

Inland from its Whitegate Drive end, Preston Old Road crosses

South Park Drive and a large house still stands on a promontory,

called The Mount. This was the home of Marton benefactor John

Picken Dixon. It was previously a farmhouse,

surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see

and good shooting territory. Mr Dixon, a

wealthy cotton mill owner, turned The Mount

into a grand house in the country style and

entertained visitors in squirely fashion. He had

the first Silver Cloud Rolls Royce in the area

but was also generous with his wealth, making

widespread donations every Christmas to local people and the poor.

It was J.P. Dixon who had the crumbling, old St Paul's Church by

the Saddle rebuilt in its present grandeur. Perhaps he had hoped to

see his youngest son Edward married there. . . but instead Edward

was killed and buried in France towards the end of the Great War.

Afterwards J.P.Dixon bided much of his time nurturing famed rose

gardens about The Mount.

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Edward and other local men killed in the First World War are

commemorated on the cenotaph his family erected. There are

stories of a gun carriage to commemorate them being drawn down

from The Mount to the churchyard, where the Dixon family vault

still stands prominently. Near the cenotaph there are also flat

gravestones illustrating the darker days of Great Marton when so

many children died.

In communal mindedness typical of the time, J.P. Dixon also

established Marton Institute for the recreation of local working

men. Meanwhile, at the Saddle itself, the Leigh family had a history

of providing free fruit and honey to children from a hatch where the

current gents toilets block stands.

Now the local kids get their sweets from a 24-hour Tesco Express

just round the corner. Amenities for older locals include the nearby

chippy, pie shop, barber's and, last but not least, the bookies. Pull

up any afternoon at the pelican crossing on Whitegate Drive,

outside the Saddle Inn, and you will see some of its many

characters crossing on their ritual route from bar to betting

counter.

We can only wonder what good, old J.P. would have said!

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2. Lords, Commons and

T'Others

I STARTED drinking in Blackpool's Saddle Inn when it wasn't the

oldest pub in the resort. In the late 1970s the old Foxhall on the

Promenade was still standing, though something of a rough house.

The Saddle had always been tightly run and the tenant back then, Jim

Dyson, kept up the tradition so keenly he became famous for his readiness to ban

offenders on a bizarre variety of perceived outrages.

Some outstanding offences over the years included poking the fire ("Only I'm allowed

to do that" - Jim); laughing too loud (a larger-than-life burger salesman from the

Golden Mile, later murdered while on holiday in Florida - possibly for the same

behaviour); speaking in French (a languages teacher celebrating end of term too

extravagantly), and stuttering ("Wasting staff time" - Jim). The last

offender had only managed to get a series of 'p's out - p-p-p-p. Jim

went through the alternatives - pint of bitter, pint of mild, pint of

Bass - all to no avail then angrily issued his ban. As he left, the

offender was heard to finally mutter: "I only wanted a p-packet of

crisps." (With my apologies to Richard.)

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The pub was wisely divided into different drinking areas. Working

men in dirty clothes stayed in the back entrance hall and were

expected to leave by 7pm. There was an open bar area, with plain

linoleum, where anyone else could stand, then three distinct rooms

where the patrons occupied the same seats often lunchtime,

evenings and weekends.

The Commons, like Westminster's own chamber of that name,

originally had green-coloured bench seating. There was also lino in

here and the upholstery was plain plastic. Pictures of past sporting

heroes abounded and of Blackpool's Wembley triumph. There was

an informal atmosphere and as much banter as in Parliament,

though better natured. Dominoes was the big game and I recall one

man's dog which would sit upright among the players apparently

following every move.

The Smoking Room was the front lounge, with blue carpeting and

fabric upholstery and oil paintings of sailing ships and famous

theatrical or royal personages. The atmosphere was muted, suitable

for thoughtful pipe smokers discussing the day's events or reading

paperes.

Last, but not at all least, was the Lords. This was decked out in red

and there were pictures of members of the former Marton Council,

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which used to meet in the room. The Lords was for the elite of

regulars and was, I'm sorry to report ladies, the last to admit

women.

"I used to be able to bring my dog in here but not the wife,"

lamented one old chap to me. "Now it's t'other way around." He

shook his head sadly. "I much preferred it afore." Each room had its

own fire and conventions, as well as its own waiter - summoned by

bell presses which remain but sadly no longer bring service.

Much of the tradition, however, continued under the next landlord,

the highly regarded former policeman John

Moore. He was a veteran of the Honourable

Order of Bass Drinkers (to be outlined later)

and with several attractive daughters sharing

his upstairs quarters.

"I used to be a waiter in the Commons," a

cheerful regular told me while getting a round of drinks for his

friends. "My older brother did the Lords but I was only allowed in

there if he asked the regulars' permission."

I noticed he went back into the Lords and, with time, he eventually

invited me to join his company - now largely deceased.

Ever a man of the people, however, I've enjoyed all the rooms as

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well as those diverse characters in them.

You'll meet them yourself very soon - even the dead ones.

Cheers!

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3. An Uncommon Lot

PERHAPS the greatest characters in the Saddle Inn at Great

Marton, Blackpool's oldest pub, were in its cosy back room, the

Commons. This rattled daily to the sound of dominoes, hearty wit

and mutterings over horse races lost and won.

Regulars tended to sit in the same places. To the left as you went in

was Dave the Cap, so called as he never removed the flat cap he

wore at a jaunty angle. There he would sit, pint of Special bitter to

hand, staring across into the glowing coals; never saying much, just

chewing on gum and offering a wry smile from time to time. I think

he was a council gardener so he had lots of time on his hands and,

apparently, much to smile about back then in the 70s. Also usually

on the left of the room was Bill the Neck, so called because his neck

was locked in downward position by spondylitis or chronic arthritis.

Whatever the cause, he could only look at you by literally bending

over backwards or by casting a wary sideways glance as though

doubting your veracity. Older locals claimed Bill had been given the

choice of his neck being permanently set upright in normal position

or looking down, and had chosen the latter so he would notice if he

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dropped any coins. Somehow I doubt this theory and can also

report that, owing perhaps to the friendliness of the Commons and

satisfactory quality of the Bass, Bill always seemed in good cheer

despite his medical setback.

Among other characters was Burt Knight, retired master decorator

who had painted all the resort's piers. Burt had a weeping eye that

he put down to being ill-treated as a Japanese Prisoner of War. He

walked everywhere at fast pace, had a ready smile and often a

funny tale to tell, while also penning wry ditties that appeared

regularly in the Gazette's letter pages. In semi-retirement he

would only take on jobs at houses where he

could see and, therefore, readily reach the

Saddle and its neighbouring bookies. One of

Burt's last jobs was the front of Edmonds

Towers, where a careless pensioner coming

along the pavement in an electric

wheelchair bumped his ladder. Burt shouted down a severe warning

that incensed the wheelchair occupier - who backed up then

knocked away the ladders entirely. Burt was left swinging by one

hand from an upper casement, until saved by a watching joiner who

rushed over the road. Burt survived that but not for long. . . his

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ashes are scattered in the Saddle's beer garden.

Finally, in this round-up, on the right of the Commons was Pete the

Prawn. (His occasional companion Derek the Window Cleaner

warrants a whole section.) Peter, an angry man who did not suffer

fools, had a tan from his allotments, fishing and regular jaunts to

Spain. He would often bring in prawns he'd fished locally for others

to taste and buy. The Saddle back then wisely served no food.

However, Peter also used his position by the fire to bake potatoes

wrapped in foil. The management (by then the more easy going

John Moore) kept salt and butter behind the bar for his use. The

Prawn repaid this kindness by chastising ignorant youngsters who

put their feet up on the upholstery or telling any ill-mannered

drinkers to sling their hooks. Quite right, I hear you cheer, and tell

us more. . .

Crazy Derek, Storming Norman and even Mandela Man will follow.

4. Good Neighbours

WHEN I first came to live in Great Marton most of the neighbours

had lived there for many years. I learned that, a little further along

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Preston Old Road than the Saddle Inn, the now-quiet Boar's Head

had once been the hub of social life for Blackpool residents.

"In't past days," one old timer told me, "soccer legend Stanley

Mortensen used to pop in for a pint - straight after he'd played. His

hair w’er still wet from shower!"

The Boar's Head's spacious Fylde Room was packed on a Saturday

night, waiters would ply their trade and that was the place to be

seen. It hadn't mattered back then that there was only a small car

park.

When I first visited, in the late 1970s, the Boar's landlord was Big

Max - noted more for a wicked wit than for keeping beer lines

clean. (“My job,” he told me later, “was to play dominoes and curse

the customers, my wife did everything else.”) However, in fairness,

the Tetleys bitter was not the stuff of old - but now brewed in

Warrington and, consequently, missing that sparkling Yorkshire

water.

By 1990 when I took up residence at Edmonds Towers, only a

handful of regulars gathered in the Boar's. The managers were

amiable couple Tom and Lesley. Max would occasionally still

entertain us there, along with the outrageous John Ashton, head of

music at a local academy and a Rolls Royce-driving, cape-

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wearing eccentric.

But I most remember Old George. George was

always dressed in suit, tie and overcoat, sat alone to

read the paper quietly and drank mild slowly. He was poor but

proud and had a caustic wit while talking much sense. No one used

to mention that landlord Tom gave George his Christmas meal free

of charge - but we all knew.

Locals knew most things then in fact. Mrs Bridge, an ancient widow

living next to the Towers, could be relied to spot any stranger

hanging around suspiciously. She had run a chip shop where a

Chinese takeaway later stood, on the site of what was once the Lord

Nelson alehouse.

Her son, Ron, was middle-aged and well spoken but another

eccentric given to outspokenness when "in drink". "Those Chinese -

dreadful people," he would mutter into his pint. But, it turned out,

he did not mean the pleasant family then making an unexpected

success of his parents' former chippy. "I fought them in Korea -

terrible, the things they did."

After Mrs Bridge died, things went downhill fast for poor Ron. I

sometimes returned late to the Towers on a weekend evening and

saw Ron's front door still open wide on to the busy pavement.

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Inside, he would be asleep in his armchair by the fire - a tea cosy on

his head for warmth and a half-finished bottle of whisky before him.

I would quietly shut the door from without and retire, chastened.

Visiting friends knew things were getting out of hand when they

caught Ron cutting up wads of fivers with his kitchen scissors.

Apparently he had money stashed all about the old place.

"I don't want my relatives getting their hands on it," he'd explain.

Fortunately, he was persuaded to leave it to charity. By then he was

going down fast but still reasonable enough company for a while in

the Saddle. There, or anywhere now, he was never to be seen

without his flat cap on (the tea cosy having disappeared). Rumour

had it he even wore it to bed.

A fall outside the pub proved Ron's final undoing.

A friend came back from visiting him in Victoria Hospital, with a

mournful shake of her head.

"He's in a bad way with an oxygen mask," she reported to the

regulars.

"Still," she added, with a sympathetic, little laugh, "he still had on

his flat hat."

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5. Derek the Window Cleaner

A MEMORABLE character from the room known as the Commons in

Blackpool's oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, was Derek the Window

Cleaner. He could be found by the coal fire in there, genially

supping Draught Bass, most weekday afternoons come early

evenings.

Derek was a tall, rangy man with dark hair, poor teeth and a

winning way about him. His window cleaning round took in many

shops and offices round South Shore and also here in Great Marton

where he ended at the beloved Saddle. He even claimed to have

keys to the Oxford Square NatWest bank, so he could spruce up the

windows before customers and staff arrived. I don't know the truth

of this, but the bank has now closed down and Derek hasn't been

seen in these parts for years. . .

He lived during the week in a caravan by the Marton mushroom

farm, shared with a couple of mongrel sheepdogs from home. Home

was Appleby in Cumbria where his wife and he lived above a wool

and knick-knack shop she ran.

"She can't stand me being around for more than a weekend," he

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explained.

But it was playing the trumpet for Eartha Kitt and surviving on

Reichstag rice pudding from the Second World War which made

Derek really unique.

"I just play when some big star's in town and they need more

musicians at Opera House," he told me modestly one wet, wintry

afternoon. "I've played with 'em all, but Eartha Kitt was best - really

looked after us. She'd lay on a party

at end of week - and get a crate of

whisky in 'specially for band'. Grand

lass . . ." (here Derek's buckled teeth

almost glittered)

“ . . . and right sexy too!"

Derek dined mainly in the caravan on

war-surplus rice pudding. "Beautiful stuff - all you need. Not ours

but the Nazis' - the tins have a Reichstag stamp on. Can't remember

where I got 'em now, but dogs love it too."

However, Derek truly became a Saddle legend when he accepted a

challenge to leave his old estate car by the caravan one weekend -

and cycle home to Appleby. Being no spring chicken, he took his

time over this marathon task and set off from Great Marton in early

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morning.

"I couldn't resist stopping at a few pubs on't way, though," he

confessed.

However, by late afternoon come early evening he had wound his

wobbly way as far as his local at Appleby, which by good luck was

just opening.

"No one there believed I'd cycled it," he recalled with a grin, "till

my lad came by and said, 'By 'eck dad! Thought it were your bike

outside - where's car then, still at Blackpool?"

Derek so enjoyed his day's cycling - without the ladder and buckets

he usually carried - he repeated the feat just weeks later with

similar results. He wasn't a lad to do things by half!

6. Storming Norman

HAPPILY, Norm is still with us at the Saddle Inn at Great Marton,

Blackpool's oldest hostelry. Clad in several layers for all seasons,

'Storming's' trim beard and felt hat (complete with fishing flies) add

a touch of style and character. In the past Norman cut a still dapper

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figure, when behind his skins with cravat, tweed jacket, cigarette

holder and twinkling eye as drummer for the legendary Fylde Coast

Jazzmen.

He visited Edmonds Towers once, to look at a dodgy wardrobe door.

Unfortunately, I wasn't there.

"Are you the joiner?" inquired She Who Knows.

"Cabinetmaker!" responded Norman, insulted, and marched in and

upstairs.

Unfortunately, our vinyl finished, sliding doors were not his cup of

tea and he couldn't help us out.

"Personally," he confided rather bravely to She Who, "I wouldn't

give such furniture house room."

But it's the thought that counts and

Norman, over many decades, has always

been happy to give friendly advice to

younger patrons of the pub, as well as

supplying tinder for its coal fires.

Besides his woodwork and drum skills, Norm is also a master fly

fisherman, can deftly handle dominoes or cards and all without a

complete thumb (lost in an early, hard-taught lesson at the lathe).

"Storming", known for his fighting spirit, is also a champion and

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living advertisement for Draught Bass. This he imbibes from a

pewter mug presented in admiration and fondness on his 70th from

his many friends at the Saddle.

And long may he sup.

7. "Honourable" Order

WHEN retired copper, big John Moore was landlord at the Saddle

Inn here at Great Marton, strange secret meetings were

occasionally witnessed in the front smoking room of Blackpool's

oldest hostelry.

This was not, however, some Victorian lodge leftover from his days

with the Manchester force but more from running that city's

historic Town Hall Tavern, also owned by brewers Bass.

The portly, club tie-wearing men bussed in

for these cloistered but boisterous

gatherings were none other than the

Honourable Order of Bass Drinkers.

The Order was formed in Manchester from

among policemen, newspapermen and

licencees whose joint passion was the consuming of Draught Bass.

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This they did from pints, since it was forbidden in the Order to

drink from halves. (This rule consequently excluded Saddle regular

"Two Halves Derek", who had been told by his doctor to "switch to

halves" to reduce his blood pressure and who had, ever since,

scrupulously ordered and drank two halves at his every visit to the

bar.)

A barrel of its finest cask was sent by the Burton-based brewery to

be consumed by members at each meeting and the landlord

provided butties or pies. The Order, formed many years before the

Campaign for Real Ale, proudly continues to this day. When the

larger Camra group invited it to affiliate, the Order responded in

typically cussed fashion by suggesting Camra join the HOBD - as I

did one dark, unguarded evening in Manchester, where it met back

then at the Unicorn pub.

We had travelled in a hired Blackpool Handybus, made handier by

bus inspectors who were Order members. After a short speech

explaining myself, everyone at the meeting voted unanimously

against my joining - which automatically made me a member. This

was typical of the perverse thinking of the Order, where the

treasurer would be booed if any monies remained in the coffers. At

regular intervals the meeting's proceedings (usually involving

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freeloading approaches to the brewery or news of distant inns

displaying the red triangle emblem of Draught Bass) were

interrupted by a chorus of "Gerremin!" - to refresh members'

throats and stretch legs.

Their tie, by the way, boasted the red triangle and a single stripe.

"We also do one with two stripes," treasurer Terry Batty (Senior)

informed me.

"Oh, how do you get one of those?" asked I.

"Die," he said. "They're only awarded posthumously - to the widow."

Unfortunately, as the Order meets only on first Mondays of the

month and then more often in Manchester than Blackpool, I decided

to resign and sent a suitably composed letter. But I'm still a

member after receiving a visit post haste by then chairman, haulier

Richard Brigg.

"You can't resign," he said, "it's against the rules."

8. Bob the Brush

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RESPECTED elder tradesman Robert Townsend, better known in

Great Marton and through Blackpool as "Bob the Brush", typifies

the best of a dying breed of artisans. Bob was also the inspiration

behind my murder mystery novel Advantage Love (see Feelgood

Books on royedmonds-blackpool.com).

He's a quiet but friendly character of

shortish, stocky build (perfect for edging

around ladders or, indeed, balancing one with

a couple of pots of paints) and wears his

trade proudly. Have you noticed how painters and decorators

always have spatters of white paint on their working clothes? But

Bob never got paint anywhere it wasn't wanted. I know because

he's refreshed She Who Knows' colour schemes at Edmonds Towers

- in a skilled, respectful working style now almost unique.

Bob's a gentle man in all senses of those words, but can look after

himself. He's done a bit with the gloves over the years, and that's

not painting. He learned his craft with large decorating firms from

the resort's past, including fellow Saddle Inn regular Burt Knight

(see 3.An Uncommon Lot earlier).

"But they changed, as younger men took over," he explains with

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heartfelt regret. In recent years he worked mostly alone, despite

not driving.

"They just didn't have respect for people's homes, or do the job

right," he explains, "it embarrassed me to be associated with them."

Bob has his code, instilled from years ago in true tradesman

tradition.

"I never smoke in people's houses and only go into rooms where I'm

working. If you invite me to make a brew, then I would use the

kitchen - but not otherwise. If I want a smoke I go outside."

Neither does Bob require a radio blasting away to do his work. He

doesn't disappear halfway through a job and always leaves your

place tidy.

It's a pleasure having him in the house, as it is sharing a drink and

chat. At the Saddle, here in Great Marton, there were many such

tradesmen once. Men proud of their craft but also respectful of

others. They often appeared for a quick one or two after finishing a

job, standing discreetly by the doorway - not wishing to dirty

upholstery or get in others' way. Later they might return, showered

and changed and with their wives to socialise.

They gave you a fair price for a job and did it honestly to the best of

their considerable abilities. Sadly, we won't see their like again.

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9. Room for Change

THE motto of Blackpool Corporation is Progress and that dynamic,

along with a brash showmanship and canny eye for trade, made this

seaside town Europe's premier resort. Besides, as we all know or

soon learn, time and tide wait for no man.

So it was that Blackpool's oldest pub, the quaint but stubbornly old-

fashioned Saddle Inn at proud Great Marton, was ripe for change.

Or so, at least, its owner the brewer Bass decided.

For decades the pub's back room, called the Commons, had echoed

to the robust humour of working men and their gals; the rattle of

domies, and crackle of a real coal fire. And so, fortunately, it more

or less remains to this day. The walls still display pictures of

sporting greats (though quite a few have disappeared during bouts

of redecoration), and the only gesture to modern life is a discreet,

flat-screen telly showing horse racing.

No, as ever, it was the soft middle classes who took the brunt of

change. The law and new landlords had already made alterations to

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the pub's other rooms. Marton's council no longer existed, so its

leading lights no longer held court in the cosiest haven, the Lords.

Also, discrimination laws in the late 70s meant it had to admit

women.

But the room still had its regulars at lunchtimes, "early doors" and

evenings. These included Stan, a Glaswegian police inspector who

used to happily escort other drivers home who'd had a few too

many; then there was a retired but hearty farmer and wife who

together filled an entire corner. But all would join in a cross-room

chat while always sitting in their usual seats.

Similarly, the pub's front "Smoking Room"

was kept like a best lounge for those wanting

a quiet chat or bit of peace. This, ironically,

was converted into a non-smoking room by

popular managers Don and Pam Ashton.

Equally controversially, they introduced food so a serving hatch

now appeared in the bar area and, sadly, dogs were banned to meet

hygiene requirements.

To be fair, the couple were ahead of their time and also started the

Saddle's legendary beer festivals in a car park marquee.

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However, the changes drove away many veterans, such as Two

Halves Derick or the quiet but stern Special Branch officer Mike.

Thus it was that a change came over the place's atmosphere and

standards slipped - resulting in more swearing and swaggering

newcomers and less respect for old regulars (well, Mike had been

known to carry a gun!)

Former pub stalwarts now took refuge up the road in Marton

Institute (still run strictly and offering cheaper cask ale). Hence the

expression becoming "institute-nalised".

However, the most dramatic change came earlier in big John

Moore's reign. During an expensive makeover when the bar's

linoleum was replaced by fancy quarry tiles, the Lords' door and

separating wall also disappeared, along with the open stairs where

John and his bevy of daughters had long stood.

True, it made the pub appear larger but this extra space only

appeared to attract more standing drinkers and, horror of horrors,

various one-armed bandits coining more cash for the brewery.

(Fortunately the worst, those with twinkling lights or silly theme

music, were regularly switched off by regulars with a crafty flick of

their heels to the plug-switches.)

Finally, the old drinking times were swept away by new licensing

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laws. People no longer had to restrict their socialising to lunch or

evening - the pub was open all day. While this offered flexibility, one

could no longer expect to see the same people at a similar time

each day. Also, it was difficult for staff to keep the place spruced up

and, of course, there were those who simply drank too much. Yes,

folks, ‘progress’ had arrived.

10. Mandela Man

WHEN brewery alterations opened up the Lords, that most

hallowed room in the Saddle Inn at Great Marton, one man voiced

the concerns of many.

"Look at the people getting in here now!" said

Peter, with a disgusted look round the

crowded bar.

He himself was an impressive sight: standing

six foot tall and solid, big shoulders back and

chest out. He had a massive head, quite bald,

and his weathered face was rounded off in a

bristly red beard. He stood just inside the

doorway, legs firmly apart as though braced

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against the elements; wearing sheepskin boots, cords and checked

shirt. He reminded me of one of those stubborn, tough, Boer

farmers, or a trapper and frontiersman from the Wild West.

"They're all a***holes!" he concluded and not in any whisper.

Newcomers and ne'er-do-wells who did meet his fierce countenance

quickly looked away. He would glare, watching them with contempt

for a while, then return silently to his pint of mild.

We had got chatting one evening and tended to meet up by routine,

early on a Saturday night. More recently he has turned to the

Institute down the road for like-minded companionship, but we

occasionally bump into each other in Stanley Park where he walks

his wiry hound. He's always friendly but is a no-nonsense sort of

man and, needless to say, far from politically correct.

I admired him for standing his ground, particularly one night when

a couple of young men - not regulars - were swearing loudly and

obviously offending old ladies on a nearby table.

Peter warned them to watch their language but they only stared in

disbelief then, minutes later, carried on.

"Hold that," he muttered to me, handing over his pint.

"Right, you two, out!" he ordered the offending pair, picking up

their drinks and putting them on the bar in front of a bewildered

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barmaid, then stood in his usual braced pose. They left.

No, he wasn't a man for winds of change, as Macmillan had called

the sweep of reform through Africa and the Third World. Like many

old-timers then in the Saddle, he was a hang-em high, right of

Genghis Khan sort of guy.

On the night he acquired his nickname, most of the world had been

watching the release of world statesman Nelson Mandela from his

long penury in South Africa. The great man was being honoured in

Wembley by a galaxy of leaders and celebrities. To tell the truth,

the historic moment brought tears to my eyes as I watched it unfold

on television.

So I was a bit later than usual to the Saddle that Saturday.

As I entered its portals, however, a familiar figure filled the

entrance hall.

"Sorry I'm late," I gushed, still flushed from the moving events,

"been watching the welcome for Nelson Mandela."

The big, ruddy face stared down at me then frowned. Surely he

understood who I meant, the whole world now knew of the great

African and his lifelong crusade for freedom.

Peter's face set and he shook his head in dismay, before

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pronouncing grimly:

"They should have shot that bastard, as soon as they caught him."

12. Yank in the Saddle

BY the early 1990s Blackpool's oldest inn at Great Marton was

being opened up to big changes. Its annual beer festival marquee

brought in hundreds of extra drinkers and annoyed locals who had

nowhere to park. But one newcomer stood out . . . behind the bar.

Greg, a giant Californian, had come on holiday courting a local girl

and also fallen in love with the cosy, old inn. It was where his future

mother-in-law had been a barmaid and his father-in-law Big John

the Rock Maker (Blackpool confectionery, that is) drank nightly.

Although a highly paid resort manager from the West Coast, Greg

left it all behind and became an assistant manager at the pub.

Besides his devotion to Draught Bass, Greg also brought American

style service to the old hostelry.

Downtrodden locals would shuffle in from the rain for a pint and be

rocked back on their heels by his sunshine manner.

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"Good afternoon, sir!" Greg would greet them. "And how are you

today?"

"Not bad, ta," came the muttered response, followed by a polite,

"and y'self?"

"Fabulous sir!" Greg would declare. "And what can I serve you with

today? Bitter? Why certainly, sir. We have six excellent cask ales to

choose from and that king of beers itself,

Draught Bass. What would be your

pleasure? Bass? Good choice, sir!"

It was like a breath of fresh air, which

inspired the young, local staff and added a

cosmopolitan air to Great Marton's

favourite watering hole. Greg was also large enough to quell any

noisy troublemakers with one warning glance, rather like a

gunslinger of old.

Sadly, the brewery never did appreciate his talents to the full.

Gregg and his lovely wife eventually went back stateside. But they

still make a regular pilgrimage to this coast and his first question is

always the same.

"How is the Bass?"

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12. Rough 'n' Ready

LIKE society in general, the times of the toffs have gone at Great

Marton's once cosy Saddle. Regulars used to include doctors,

architects, senior policemen, company directors and (of course)

journalists. But now it's the age of the working man. Just as in the

New World, as they call our old colonies, every one's equal these

days - just all guys together in the States,

or blokes in Australia. That's as it should

be but can also be boring.

Round in what was once the Lords room

of the Saddle, is now what I call Builders'

Corner of its L-shaped bar - with plasterers, joiners, painters and

brickies comparing work stories and golf handicaps.

Funnily enough, electricians seem to congregate separately to enjoy

whatever switches them on.

Meanwhile, in the Commons, a retired, old salt or navyman and

former coal miner reign or, at least, manage the remote control to

watch racing (minus volume - thankfully). Also, the former Smoking

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Room is mostly for diners these days.

Fortunately, if you're looking for diversity there are characters

aplenty (plus advice on DIY) among this down-to-earth crowd.

However, none was more colourful that the late J.R.

To start with, J.R. came from the now non-existent Westmorland in

the Lakes, complete with a whining country accent that cut the

urban air like one of his angle grinders.

However, by the time he passed on in his 60s - while still bragging

he'd outlive us all - a coachload plus many cars of mourners

followed him from Blackpool to where he was buried, by Ullswater

and his native fells.

J.R. was a hustler at dominoes, no slouch with the ladies and a fund

of wry tales told with a merry gleam in his well-weathered eyes. He

was also a highly skilled stonemason and Jack of All Trades.

"One thing I always regret," he told me, "was a stone I replaced in

Carlisle Cathedral spire. Didn't take time and do it just right - aih!"

he wailed, "I were younger then and in a rush, y'see." Here he

shook his head in dismay. "Makes me fair cringe every time I drive

by, it does."

J.R. needn't have worried.

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His memory and name are secure in the Saddle annals.

By reputation at least, he is likely to outlive us all.

13. A Barmaid's Smile

OVER the years the Saddle Inn has won many awards for its beer

and traditional style. Landlords, notably Don Ashton who started

the legendary beer festivals and more recently real ale fan and

popular Fleetwood lad Alan Bedford, have

been lauded by the Campaign for Real Ale

and others.

However, for most patrons it's the bar staff

who, along with a drop of what they fancy,

bring solace and cheer.

"Served with a smile as wide as a barmaid's buttocks!" might have

rung true in old days, when barmaids were often matronly as well

as comely. But nowadays bar staff have slimmed down (with a few

lovable exceptions) and glammed up - and that's just the boys!

For many years they have put up with grumbles from diehards

demanding their tankards be filled to the brim, smiled at the same

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jokes and taken only 10p "for themselves" (now finally risen to 20p).

They're invariably loyal, willing to dress up in fancy dress when

required and look after the regulars better than the breweries or

pub managing companies.

How can we thank them? Raise anew our glass and say "cheers".

14. Taking the Mick

SADLY the Saddle Inn is no longer the remarkably unspoiled and

cosy pub so cherished by locals and admired along the coast and

beyond.

It was once the flagship of brewer Bass. Yet now its premier ale

Draught Bass - heartily prescribed by

Blackpool's leading bowel consultant - is

sometimes unavailable. Such unthinkable

omissions have caused havoc with the

digestion of regulars such as Storming

Norman who have drunk little else for half a

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century.

Even the pub's proud welcoming signs have been replaced by tacky

posters promoting cheap booze, bust-a-gut bargain grub and

gambling-arcade scams.

Yet, inside those once hallowed

portals, the much-loved hand-pumps

still stand proud - along with many

long-serving patrons.

Quality beer - and characters - remain

and still make the inn a pleasure to visit.

Its front "smoking room", as was, is now mainly a dining room with

a fragrance similar to the nearby chippy, and often attracting

groups who appear suitable cases for care in the community. The

recklessly enlarged, L-shaped bar was described on one real ale

website as "a bear pit".

Fortunately, the old Commons room remains a relative haven for

convivial chat, chess and studying horse racing form before a stroll

across Whitegate Drive to the bookies.

For my own part there is my corner in the late afternoon or early

evening. We put up with the flat-screen telly just above our heads

as its sound has thankfully been turned off. From this vantage point

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one can spot - and exchange greetings with if desired - all those

entering front and rear doors, or visiting the conveniences, while

also admiring the barmaids. Yet it is still possible, while idly leaning

there, to sidestep any bores.

Regulars are known to each other by first names and jobs or other

identifying features. By far the most popular moniker is Mick.

There's Little Mick, Window-cleaner Mick, Tiler Mick, Karen's Mick

(previously Mick the Plasterer before retiring), Train Driver Mick

(formerly Ponytail Mick, prior to going spiky and changing jobs)

and, not least, the longest-serving,

most loyal patron, Original Mick.

Beneath our feet the floor was once

plain, honest linoleum. But now, after

several short-sighted makeovers, it is

a malodorous, black mulch that was

once premium Axminster. You

wouldn't use these remains to carpet a kennel but the Micks

gamefully put up with it.

You see, they've grown used to the powers that be taking the Mick.

Some regulars say the Saddle's slide started when the the bar was

enlarged by opening the old Lords room; then gaming machines

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appeared; meals began being served; loudspeakers rattled from

walls, and tellies in corners. They even took away our stained glass

windows, lost original paintings and cartoons, painted tastelessly

over old woodwork and, incredibly, were only

stopped from taking out the hand-pumps by

manager Don Ashton.

Fortunately, a pool table would not fit through the old pub's doors;

preposterous karaoke sessions were outlawed after noise

complaints; unwelcome donkey rides and bouncy castles have

disappeared from the beer garden, while regulars have craftily

disconnected or switched off more annoying electronic gadgets.

Despite all the inappropriate and ill-considered changes from

brewers, harassed managers and profit-chasing pub chains, some of

the original pleasures of the inn remain.

The Saddle along with nearby St Paul's remain at the heart of Great

Marton. Even today you can expect a friendly welcome, though the

regulars change according to time of day. There remain fine ales,

coal fires in winter and a down-to-earth chat with ready laughter

while, beyond its old windows, the nether world of breezy Blackpool

rolls by.

That stuffed saddle which once hung above the entrance may now

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be gone, but our coast's most historic stabling inn still refreshes

parts others cannot reach.

So, mount up and mosey on down!

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