When pubs outstay their location and end up on the edge of reality.
In Great Harwood there is a pub called The Victoria Hotel, but everyone knows it as Butcher Brig.
You find it by wandering through terraced, speed-bumped streets on the edge of town. Eventually you will find it at the end of a road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. In winter its windows glow in the mizzle. In the summer, its former bowling green provides the largest, greenest beer garden in Harwood. Inside, one saloon, two snugs and a pool room reveal that this pub was built to house many people all at once — and it was loved. The décor is outrageously Edwardian. The central horseshoe bar stands proud and able to serve all rooms simultaneously through the roomy lobby. At one time there must have been a constant flow of pints pulled from the brass-polished pumps. Now, one person behind the bar is all it needs, although the place is never totally empty. Owners have come and gone in recent years but lately the beer and the quality of them has stabilised. The current owners seem to want to do right by this stoic old gem, scrubbing it up to a demure sheen, and choosing more interesting cask for their eclectic patrons. Because there are locals who have always been here, and there are pool teams visiting, CAMRA branch meetings to be had, and there are people like me who come because the tilework is breathtaking.
The first time I walked into the Butcher, I couldn’t believe the pub was alive. It had all the hallmarks of a sadly boarded-up old inn: inconvenient location, oversized stature, difficult market. But here it was, fire on in the snug, the crack of a break shot muffled through the conversations of drinkers in the main saloon. Then I saw the tiles. Acres of cream and bulb-flowers on every inch of wall, delicately fitted to every corner, ornate and specifically made to curve over the arches of each doorway and up the stairs. This is why the pub is recognised by English Heritage, and Grade II listed. I have never seen anything like it.
The reason this pub stands at the end of a street on the edge of Great Harwood is because once a railway passed right by, and trains stopped a station on the adjacent road. The street ends with the pub because once, there was a bridge there, taking workers to the mills or to the mines in Clayton. So that’s the “Brig” part of the name.
Why do the tiles reach all the way up to the ceiling? It’s an unusual design feature, and an expensive one too. Most pubs with beautiful tiling only have it halfway up the wall, where it meets wallpaper and dado rail. Why choose to clad the entire lobby and staircase in Art Nouveau ceramic?
“Think practically,” said my friend, who knows much more about the pub than I do when I asked him why they’d go to so much effort. “The workers came back from a shift and got straight on the pints, all in their dirty clothes, putting hand prints everywhere. Not all of them were mill workers. There was a slaughterhouse just around the corner.”
And that’s why it’s called the Butcher Brig.
Come and see me in London on Saturday 12 April
I’m hosting an event for my zine A Place To Be at Caps and Taps in Tufnell Park on Saturday, and I’d love for you to come.
I’m pouring some Scatterlings beer for us all too, because I fancy it, and it’ll just be a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
The event starts at 4pm, and will last for around an hour. Bring yourselves and your questions — entry is free, as is a wee taster of Scatterlings. Just a little thank you from me.
See you there xox
