The Old Dog and Duck

by Albert Jack

  It is equally possible that some pubs acquired their name thanks to a recipe that was popular throughout England in the sixteenth century. Cock ale was a type of beer flavoured with spices and chicken. To make the ale, innkeepers would take ten gallons of beer and add five pounds of raisins, some cloves and other spices. Then they prepared a cockerel, the older the better, by hitting it with a stone until it was completely flat. The cock was then boiled in the mixture, which was left to stand for nine days, when the cock would be removed, the ale now ready for bottling. I think I need to take a break here…

  How the Cock and Trumpet got its name has a far less eye-watering history, which can be traced to the Elizabethan poets, who would associate the crowing cock with a trumpet player. A good example can be found in Shakespeare’s Hamlet (Act 1, Scene 1):

  … I have heard,

  The cock that is the trumpet to the morn,

  Doth with his lofty and shrill sounding throat

  Awake the god of the day…

  More straightforwardly, the Cock and Bottle derives from a sign used to advertise a tavern selling both bottled and barrelled beer. The ‘cock’, in this case, being the peg of the barrel from which the ale was drawn. (For the origin of the expression ‘cock and bull story’, based on a pub called the Cock, see THE BULL.)

  The Crooked Billet

  I HEARD IT WAS THE GRAPEVINE

  The Romans used to display a bunch of grapes outside a wine house to indicate the grapes had been harvested and the new wine would be flowing. A crooked billet literally means a bent or crooked stick or other piece of wood shaped like a shepherd’s ‘crook’. As a pub name, it may well have evolved from the image of the grapevine after it had been stripped clean of its fruit by birds within minutes of being displayed outside the tavern. There is no real evidence to indicate that the empty grapevine is the basis for the pub name, but it’s a good story. As is the idea of an old country pub having its sign blown away in a gale, leaving a rudimentary wooden pole, probably not straight, standing outside the inn, causing locals to nickname it the Crooked Billet. In truth, nobody really knows why pubs are called this other than that a crooked billet is a bent stick of some kind.

  Another meaning of ‘billet’, of course, is a lodging for soldiers. One establishment in Stoke Row near Henley on Thames, called the Crooked Billet since it was built in 1642, claims to have provided lodging (albeit in secret) for a rather less upright citizen (definitely ‘crooked’, in this case). This was none other than the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin (1705–39), purported to have had a love affair with the landlord’s daughter Bess. Although there is no evidence Turpin ever had a lover called Bess, he did have a horse by the same name, stolen from a Mr Major at the point of a flintlock pistol. Black Bess, as the highwayman named his new charge, was the fine thoroughbred that would eventually lead to Turpin’s capture. Furious at the loss of his beloved horse, Major handed notices around the pubs of London, describing both the horse and highwayman, and offering a substantial reward for its return. Magnificent and distinctive in appearance, Bess was soon traced to the The Red Lion in Whitechapel, where the outlaw had stabled it and Turpin’s accomplice was arrested when he returned to collect Black Bess, eventually leading to the capture of the highwayman himself.

  The Cross Keys

  DRINKERS’ HEAVEN?

  Any public house bearing this name would have had, at one time, strong religious connections, and the symbol of the cross keys is still closely associated with Christianity. The New Testament tells the story of a young fisherman who became one of the twelve disciples and whom Jesus renamed Peter, from the Greek word petros, meaning ‘rock’, because he was to become the rock upon which ‘I build my church’ and to whom one day he would give ‘the keys to the kingdom of heaven’ (Matthew 16: 18–19).

  After his death, Jesus’s supporters wandered around in their long robes and sandals, gathering more followers along the way, until the Romans tired of what they perceived as their disruptive influence and crucified most of them. As Jesus had predicted, Peter was their leader and, according to Catholic tradition, became the first Pope. The crossed keys are his symbol, perhaps also in oblique reference to the manner of his death – by crucifixion. At his own request, he was crucified upside down because he felt he was not worthy to die in the same manner as Jesus. Traditionally, St Peter is the guardian of heaven and the keys unlock its gate – indeed paintings of him often show him holding the keys. To this day, the Pope wears the Fisherman’s Ring – a signet ring showing Peter fishing from a boat and used for sealing official documents – and displays the symbol of the cross keys in honour of St Peter.

  Over the last two thousand years, the sign of St Peter’s crossed keys has been displayed over taverns, hostels, hotels and even private houses advertising board and lodgings to the weary traveller or pilgrim. There’s also a bit of a joke behind the use of this symbol as a pub sign for everyone who thinks that a good pub is, well, heaven. And so now, when you next hear any joke that starts along the lines of: ‘An Englishmen, Scotsman and Irishman all knocked on the pearly gates of heaven and St Peter said…’ you’ll know that’s the very St Peter who has the keys to heaven, and who inspired the symbol of the crossed keys, used since the dawn of Christianity.

  The Crown and Arrows

  A SAINTLY ROYAL TARGET

  St George was not the first patron saint of England. Hundreds of years before we adopted the Libyan hero (see GEORGE AND DRAGON) there was actually a Anglo-Saxon king who held that distinction: St Edmund the Martyr, King of East Anglia (841–69). Edmund, who is thought to have descended from previous East Anglian monarchs, was crowned king, aged just fifteen, on Christmas Day in 855.

  It was a turbulent time in English history. The Vikings, who had been raiding the eastern coastline since 800, began settling in East Anglia in 865, around ten years into the young king’s reign. Until then, Edmund had been a peacefully minding his own business. A considerate ruler, he treated his subjects with respect and favour. He also immersed himself in the Christian religion, once even spending an entire year in prayer in his royal tower at Hunstanton.

  While this was good for the soul, it wasn’t so good at discouraging marauding Vikings and in early 869 two Viking chiefs, Hubba and Hinguar, invaded King Edmund’s domain. Edmund fought back fiercely and repelled the invading army, re-establishing peace in East Anglia. Unfortunately for the young king, the Danes returned in larger numbers later in the year, this time led by the wonderfully named Ivor the Boneless and his brother Ubbe Ragnarsson. One version of the events that followed suggests Edmund engaged them in battle at Hoxne, although another, more likely, story insists that Edmund, realizing his men were hopelessly outnumbered and reluctant to see any further slaughter, disbanded his army and rode away. He was soon caught by the Vikings, however, who demanded he accept them as his overlords and renounce the Christian faith, but the king refused. Even after torture Edmund declared his faith to be more important than his own life, so he was tied to a tree in front of the Viking leader Hinguar. Once again, Edmund refused to renounce his faith and so Hinguar ordered his archers to use the king for target practice.

  The story of the king’s death and martyrdom was recorded a century later by his biographer, Abbo of Fleury, who was told it by St Dunstan, who in turn claimed to have heard it directly from one of Edmund’s military commanders who had witnessed the whole thing. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells it like this:

  The heathens then became brutally angry because he called on Christ to help him. They shot then with arrows, as if to amuse themselves, until he was all covered with their missiles as with bristles of a hedgehog, just as Saint Sebastian was. Then Hinguar, the dishonourable Viking, saw that the noble king still did not desire to renounce Christ and with resolute faith still called to him. Hinguar then commanded to behead the king and the heathens thus did. While this was happening, Edmund still called to Christ. Then the heathens dragged the holy man to slaughter, and with a stroke struck the
head from him.

  According to the legend, the Vikings tried to hide Edmund’s severed head in a wood, but it called out and was rescued. His final resting place is the town of St Edmundsbury in Suffolk, otherwise known as Bury St Edmunds, which became famous during the final century of the first millennium because of the miracles reputedly performed at King Edmund’s graveside.

  In the same way that many pubs have been named in honour of our current patron saint, so St Edmund would have inspired landlords to use his name and image on their inn signs. While there is no Crown and Arrows pub at Bury St Edmunds (although the town does have a ROSE AND CROWN), a pub by that name can be found by St Edmund’s Church at Shelton Lock, near Derby.

  The Davy Lamp

  EARLY EARLY-WARNING SYSTEM

  The eldest of five children, Humphry Davy was born in Penzance, Cornwall, on 17 December 1778. A brilliant scientist, later fellow of the Royal Society and professor of the Royal Institution, Davy became hugely popular with the public and his lecture tours and experiments were always well attended, possibly because they were so dangerous – in 1812 laboratory accidents cost him two fingers and the use of one eye.

  In 1814 Sir Humphry Davy (he had been knighted two years previously) settled back into his laboratory and, inspired by the Felling mine disaster of 1812, at a colliery near Newcastle, began work to improve the underground pit lighting and safety of miners. By 1815 he had produced a safety lamp that enabled miners to work deep seams despite the presence of methane or other flammable gases. At the time, all mines were illuminated by the naked flame and explosions were a constant hazard. But Davy discovered that a flame enclosed by a fine wire mesh could not ignite any dangerous gases (known as ‘firedamp’) as air could pass through the gauze, keeping the flame alight, but the holes in the mesh were too fine to allow the flame to pass the other way and ignite the firedamp. In addition, the flame inside the safety lamp would burn with a blue tinge if any firedamp were present. Placed near the ground, the lamp could also be used to detect denser gases, such as carbon monoxide, the invisible killer. If there was insufficient oxygen in the air, the flame would go out, acting as an early warning for miners to evacuate. No doubt canary lovers the world over were just as pleased as the miners by Davy’s innovative ideas. (A canary in a cage had previously provided the early-warning system – a dead bird indicating the presence of toxic gases.)

  Despite his many other significant scientific discoveries, it is the miner’s safety lamp, and his contribution to the welfare of the men who worked the mines, that Davy is best remembered for, and to this day pubs in former mining communities all over Britain still bear the name of his life-saving invention.

  The Dog Watch

  THE NAVAL SHIFT SYSTEM AND ITS ARTFUL ‘DODGE’ WATCH

  The Dog Watch, as a pub name, doesn’t relate to dogs (see THE OLD DOG AND DUCK for those that do) but is an old nautical term still in regular use by modern sailors. The Royal Navy’s peacetime watch system was first developed during the seventeenth century and has worked so efficiently for navies throughout the world there has never been any reason to modify it. At sea, it is vital for a ship to be manned twenty-four hours a day and there are three crucial areas that must never be left unattended: the bridge, the ship’s control centre and the main communications office. To ensure there is sufficient manpower at all times, the working day of the crew is split into four-hour shifts, with the exception of the last watch or ‘dog watch’, which is split into two two-hour shifts.

  Time Name Nickname

  2000–0000 First watch The first (Geoff Hurst)

  0000–0400 Middle watch Middle (Hey diddle diddle)

  0400–0800 Morning watch The morning

  0800–1200 Forenoon watch The forenoon

  1200–1600 Afternoon watch The afternoon

  1600–1800 First dog watch First dog

  1800–2000 Last dog watch Last dog

  No specific time All night in bed All night in (Rin Tin Tin)

  This makes seven watches in total, an odd number, which means that the schedule can be rotated to ensure the same team is not working the same shift every day. The dog watch has always been split into two so that all the sailors on the ship have a chance to have their evening meal. It is thought to be called the dog watch after being nicknamed the ‘dodge watch’ by early mariners. It is also possibly the origin of the expression ‘dog tired’. Traditionally (presumably dating to the time when the watches didn’t have watches) bells have been used to mark each half-hour of a watch, so that the sailors can tell how much time has elapsed; eight bells mark the end of a watch, except the first dog watch, of course, which finishes after four. Interestingly, the number of bells sounded at the last dog watch is 1-2-3-8 rather than 5-6-7-8, a tradition that goes back to 1797, when a group of mutineers planned to take over a ship at ‘five bells in the dog watches’, after which officers decreed that only one bell should be struck at 6.30 pm, instead of five.

  The Dover Patrol

  THE NAVAL COMMAND BEST REMEMBERED FOR A DARING WARTIME RAID

  In June 1914 Britain entered the First World War. A major problem for any island nation in the time of war is the need to secure the seas, both to prevent invasion and to keep open supply lines. The Dover Patrol was set up to prevent enemy submarines using the Channel and it was soon to become one of the most important naval commands of the war.

  From fairly modest beginnings, the Dover Patrol began to assemble a larger fleet, consisting of a wide range of craft, including mine sweepers, submarines, sea planes, aeroplanes, airships, destroyers and cruisers. These all began patrolling the North Sea and the English Channel, looking for German U-boats, laying mines and escorting merchant supply ships. They would engage the enemy, too, shelling its defences along the coast of Belgium and Holland. The Dover Patrol became so effective that German U-boats and warships were forced to sail from the south of England to the tip of Scotland to reach the open seas. Over the next four years of the Great War, the Dover Patrol managed to maintain vital supply routes, carry ground troops to the front lines and bring home the wounded while all the time encountering the deadly U-boats.

  In April 1918 the patrol was involved in one of the most daring operations of the entire war. Back in 1905 the Belgians had built a large artificial harbour at Zeebrugge, and it was here that the occupying German navy had made a base for their U-boat fleet. On the morning of 23 April 1918, the Dover Patrol, under the command of Vice Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, attempted to eliminate the threat from the submarines by attacking Zeebrugge with the intention of blocking traffic in and out of the port by sinking three ships filled with concrete at the mouth of the Bruges Canal.

  As the operation began, 200 Royal Marines went ashore to attack enemy guns defending the canal while the remaining 1,500 men of the fleet managed to sink two of the three ships across the lock gate, severely disrupting German naval operations.

  On the British side, 200 men were killed and another 300 badly injured, but the raid was regarded as a major success for the troops involved and a key propaganda victory, with no less than eight Victoria Crosses being presented, the highest military award for valour. Each year, on St George’s Day, the Battle of Zeebrugge is commemorated at the port and the men of the Dover Patrol remembered. As they are by any pub going by this name.

  The Drunken Duck

  (Ambleside, Cumbria)

  A VERY RUDE AWAKENING…

  Many years ago an innkeeper’s wife at the Station Hotel near Ambleside, in the heart of the Lake District, found a duck lying motionless on the cobblestones in the back yard. Saddened by the loss of the duck, but thinking how the bird would make a fine meal, she took it inside and plucked it ready for cooking. But the warmth of the fire restored the by now very bald duck back to indignant, quacking life. The landlord soon discovered the problem: a barrel had broken in the courtyard and beer had flooded the yard, pouring into the duck’s feeding ditch. The duck had been not dead but dead drunk. Meanwhile, much to the deligh
t of both locals and travellers alike, the landlady, full of remorse, knitted an outfit for the duck to keep it warm until some of its feathers grew back. When people started appearing from far and wide to see the pub’s unusual pet, the canny landlord renamed the Station Hotel the ‘Drunken Duck’. (For more on the use of ‘duck’ as a pub name, see THE OLD DOG AND DUCK.)

  The Duke of Buckingham

  RISE AND FALL OF ‘THE HANDSOMEST-BODIED MAN IN ALL OF ENGLAND’

  George Villiers was born on 28 August 1592, the son of a minor nobleman. When he was twelve years old, his father died, leaving George and his mother Mary in a vulnerable position as his elder half-brothers, offspring of his father’s first marriage, were in control of the family estate. Hoping her good-looking son could become a success at court, Mary sent George to France so he could be trained in the gentlemanly arts of fencing, dancing and how to conduct himself at court.