by Albert Jack
But it is largely thanks to the writers among the clientele that Harry’s Bar began to establish an international reputation, helped in particular by Ernest Hemingway, who had his own table in one corner and who immortalized the bar in his novel Across the River and into the Trees (1950), not to mention the short story ‘In Harry’s Bar in Venice’. It was Hemingway who came up with the name for one of Cipriani’s now famous cocktails, the Montgomery, after the barman explained to the writer the recipe was fifteen parts gin and one part vermouth. Hemmingway noted that the proportion of gin to vermouth sounded like the odds General Montgomery once faced during the recent war, still managing to win despite being massively outnumbered.
Since the Second World War, the reputation of Harry’s Bar has continued to spread and it serves a growing clientele, from celebrities and princes to lowly serfs like you and me. In 2001, in recognition of its status, the Italian Ministry for Cultural Affairs declared the Harry’s Bar in Venice a national landmark.
Which brings me to the obvious question: who was Harry? During the roaring 1920s a rich American family decided to pack off one of their number to Europe in a bid to curb his enthusiasm for drinking. In 1929, in the care of his aunt and her Pekingese pooch, Harry Pickering moved into the Hotel Europa in Venice to begin his period of rehabilitation but, since his aunt liked a drink or two herself, the three of them idled most of their days at the hotel bar, at that time being run by twenty-nine-year-old Giuseppe Cipriani, who later noted that any small bar could have made a decent profit just out of Harry and his aunt alone. Quite what possessed the family to send a young man to Italy to curb his drinking habits is anybody’s guess, but within a few months the pair argued, the aunt flounced out, and Harry found himself alone in the city without the funds to pay even his drinks bill. Instead, the young man sat alone in the bar, gazing out of the window, until one day Giuseppe asked him what his problem was. On learning of the lad’s plight, the barman chose to ignore the motto written behind the bar in so many pubs: ‘Please don’t ask for credit because a punch in the mouth often offends’ and handed over his life savings of 10,000 lire so that Harry could have one last drink with him, pay his bills and book a boat home to Boston.
Giuseppe was soon reading in the newspapers about the stock market crash in America of October 1929 and the subsequent Great Depression that crippled the US economy. As the months passed the barman began to give up hope of ever seeing his money again, until one day, in February 1931, Harry strolled back into the Hotel Europa and placed 10,000 lire in cash on the bar, with the words: ‘Here you are – thanks for the money.’ The young man then pulled another 30,000 lire out of his pocket and handed it over to the astonished barman, saying: ‘And now you can open a bar of your own.’ Giuseppe Cipriani and Harry Pickering opened the doors to Harry’s Bar on 13 May 1931, and if as many customers who claim to have walked through the door on that day had actually done so, then, as Cipriani himself later declared, ‘I would have had to have a bar the size of St Mark’s Square.’
The Hero of Inkerman
THE ORDINARY SOLDIER WHO KEPT HIS HEAD UNDER FIRE
Inkerman was one of the more famous battles in the Crimean War (see also THE ALMA). On 5 November 1854 Russian forces attacked the British at Inkerman, a key town commanding a major supply route, with around 30,000 men. The British and French forces of about 15,000 were hopelessly outnumbered but fought bravely and tenaciously, driving the Russians back and inflicting over 12,000 casualties on the Cossack army, some of whom retreated to the surrounding hills and caves and set up sniper positions, picking off the British in the town at will.
A division of men under the command of Corporal John Prettyjohn was sent to clear the caves of Cossack snipers and in so doing managed to run out of ammunition. Their situation was desperate. The London Gazette later published part of a letter written by Colonel Wesley, the Deputy Adjutant General:
On 5th November 1854 at the Battle of Inkerman, Corporal Prettyjohn’s platoon went to clear out some caves occupied by snipers. In doing so they used up almost all of their ammunition, and then noticed fresh parties of Russians creeping up the hill in single file. Corporal Prettyjohn gave instructions to his men to collect as many stones as possible which they could use instead of ammunition. When the first Russian appeared he was seized by the corporal and thrown down the slope. The rest were greeted by a hail of stones and retreated.
News of Prettyjohn’s exploits were widely reported throughout Britain and the Hero of Inkerman was awarded the Victoria Cross for gallantry in the face of the enemy, the first Royal Marine ever to be so highly honoured. He also won the British Crimea Medal for action at Inkerman, Sebastopol and Balaclava, the Turkish and Sardinian Crimean Medals, the China Medal and a Good Conduct Gratuity for bravery in the Crimea. One reason for the popularity of the Hero of Inkerman as a pub name was that, unlike most British heroes, Prettyjohn wasn’t of noble blood; he was just an ordinary man who had shown enormous courage and common sense in the face of danger.
Prettyjohn finally left the Royal Marines on 16 June 1865 after twenty-one years as a professional soldier and he moved with his family to Greater Manchester where he became golf club steward at the Whalley Range Bowls Club in Withington, Lancashire. Now I bet that is one golf club that never had to put up with slow players or ill-mannered guests.
The Hope and Anchor
AN UNLIKELY AID FOR KEEPING YOU BUOYANT?
As well as its obvious nautical associations (see THE ANCHOR), an anchor was an early Christian symbol of hope and security, as derived from the words of St Paul in Hebrews 6: 19: ‘which hope we have as the anchor of the soul’. It was also the emblem of St Nicholas of Bari, the patron saint of sailors, and is associated with St Clement, Pope Clement I, martyred during the first century AD when he was tied to an anchor by the Romans and thrown into the sea. Any of these religious references might have inspired an innkeeper to use a ship’s anchor as a sign outside his establishment. It would also account for the variation the Blue Anchor, blue representing hope.
The Horse and Hounds
FROM A HUNT-LOVING MONARCH TO AN ARISTOCRATIC SABOTEUR
Once regarded as the typical English country pastime, fox hunting, like cricket, was transported across the world during the heyday of the British Empire. The hunt, with all its pomp and ritual, lives on in America, Canada, Russia, New Zealand and many European countries. In Britain the hunt continues, especially the Boxing Day ‘meet’, the hounds now following an artificial trail that doesn’t lead to a fox (or not intentionally). It is only the hunting of foxes with hounds that is affected by the ban. There’s nothing to stop hunters shooting foxes or running them over with a horse.
Although the use of hounds to track and trap prey can be traced back to the ancient Egyptians, the earliest recorded fox hunt with hounds dates to 1534 when farmers in Norfolk sent their dogs out to hunt and kill foxes in an attempt to control the ‘vermin’. There is no doubt a single hungry fox can decimate a hen house in minutes if the crafty pest can get into one, and country folk, quite understandably, should be able to do what they can to protect their livestock. It is difficult to find anybody who seriously disagrees with this sentiment. The main objection, albeit shrouded in a veil of animal rights concern, appears to be to the vulgar spectacle of the landed gentry in their red tunics, blowing their bugles and galloping over the countryside with packs of hounds ripping foxes apart, all in the name of ‘pest control’. The city law-makers, argue country folk, don’t understand the countryside and the problems caused by pests. Meanwhile, city folk argue that country people don’t understand the cities and the problems caused by pests living there, either.
It was Charles II who encouraged the training of hounds to hunt foxes, and the king himself was an enthusiastic fan of the hunt – perhaps in retaliation for all those years he spent at bay. It is recorded that one of his closest friends, George Villiers, 2nd DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM (1628–87), established the first organized hunt during his time at cou
rt. Their side’s losing of the English Civil War following the Battle of Worcester in 1651 ensured that both men experienced what it was like to be hunted (see THE ROYAL OAK); like the king, George managed to go to ground, however, escaping to Europe in the aftermath of the war. Following the restoration of the monarchy in 1660, when both men had emerged from exile, they were keen to be on the side of the hunters once again. Thanks to the new king’s fondness for the sport, fox hunting with horses and hounds became a national pastime, along with the familiar appearance of horses and hounds milling around taverns and inns that still bear the name to this day.
But there was also opposition to fox hunting, long before the twenty-first century. The original hunt saboteurs found that hunts could be thrown into disarray via a rather strange means – using a smelly fish. Herring has long been one of the most widely caught fish in the seas around Britain. In the days before refrigeration, herring and mackerel were preserved by a process of heavy salting and smoking to ensure the fish were still edible by the time they arrived in the inland market towns. This process, also known as kippering, turns the herring a deep reddish brown and heightens its already strong smell. Dragging these pungent fish over the fields was found to confuse the hounds, which would follow the scent of the herring rather than that of the fox, and it led to the expression ‘red herring’, meaning a false trail, becoming established in the English language.
Back in the nineteenth century, an English lord who resented hunters riding their horses all over his fields in pursuit of foxes paid one of his farm workers an extra shilling to lay a trail of herring that would lead the hounds away from his land. On the morning of the hunt, the lad did exactly what was asked of him and laid a fishy trail down across the fields, through the wooded glade, over the hedge, through the meadow and past the river. After several hours he decided to take a break and popped into the local pub, called ironically enough the Fox and Hounds, for a bite to eat and a pint or two. Before long, the distant sound of barking dogs could be heard and the lad grinned as the noise grew louder: his plan had clearly worked. But they were getting a little close for comfort now and he became alarmed as they drew into view outside the pub. Looking down, he realized he still had his bag of herring with him, but it was too late: the hounds poured into the pub and tore him and several other customers to shreds.
The Iron Duke
FROM STEELY COMMANDER TO UNBENDING PRIME MINISTER
All over Britain there are pubs dedicated to one man. When an establishment is called the Wellington or the Duke of Wellington, it is clear to see who it’s named after and the regard in which one of our greatest military heroes is still held. Calling a pub the Iron Duke, on the other hand, shows a rather more ambivalent reaction to his legacy.
Arthur Wellesley (1769–1852) is most famous for having finally crushed Napoleon at Waterloo, Belgium, in 1815, thus concluding the little Frenchman’s domination of Europe and changing the course of history in the process. The outcome could have been very different, however, and Wellington himself later admitted the battle was ‘the nearest-run thing you ever saw in your life’. Wellesley was renowned for his courage in the line of fire, and had served the army with distinction in the Netherlands and India before returning to England and becoming MP for Newport on the Isle of Wight in 1807. His political rise was swift and within two years had been appointed a privy counsellor (one of a body of select and powerful advisers to the British sovereign), although his comfortable life in Westminster came to an abrupt halt when he was recalled to the army and charged with the task of confronting the Napoleonic threat to Britain and the rest of Europe. It was in the Peninsula War, fought in Portugal and Spain, that he achieved his greatest military success, winning a number of important victories and being granted a dukedom following Napoleon’s exile to Elba in 1814.
Returning to England after the Battle of Waterloo, Wellington re-entered politics. His reputation as a military leader guaranteed his rise to power over the next few years and he became prime minister in 1828. Unfortunately, the very qualities that had made him such a successful general ensured his swift decline in popularity as a politician. At a time when reform was sorely needed, he was highly conservative, the spectre of the French Revolution making him suspicious of giving too much ground to the common people (this was before the working classes had the vote). Unrest had already shown itself following the end of the Napoleonic Wars, with famine and widespread unemployment, not helped by the imposition of the Corn Laws (in which cheaper foreign wheat was banned in order to force people to buy the more expensive British variety). Things had come to a head on 16 August 1819 when a crowd of nearly 80,000 protestors gathered for a meeting at St Peter’s Field in Manchester. The military was called in and the ensuing sabre-drawn charge by the cavalry left fifteen citizens dead and 700 badly injured. The massacre became known as Peterloo in a mocking echo of the Battle of Waterloo, which may have brought peace but hadn’t delivered prosperity or a more equal society.
As economic conditions deteriorated and unemployment increased over the following decade, the mood in the rural areas was often volatile, leading in 1830 to the Swing Riots, a widespread uprising among agricultural labourers who feared their livelihoods were under threat from the newly introduced threshing machines (see also THE TROUBLE HOUSE). During an emergency debate in the House of Lords it was suggested by Earl Grey, the leader of the Whig party, that parliamentary reform was the best way to end the violence. Prime Minister Wellington responded that the (obviously flawed) constitution was ‘near perfect’ and could not be improved upon and there was no need of parliamentary reform. When news of this reached the streets, rioters turned their attack on his London home, Apsley House (or, as it is better known these days, Number One, London), and Wellington was forced to install heavy iron shutters to prevent his windows being shattered and his house looted. It was this and not his legendary steeliness or battlefield resolve that earned the, by then, deeply unpopular war hero the nickname the Iron Duke.
Jack Straw’s Castle
(Hampstead, London)
WHY THE POLL TAX PROVED THE FINAL STRAW FOR ENGLAND’S PEASANTS
One of the best-known pub names in London, Jack Straw’s Castle has nothing to do with the eponymous Labour MP, real name John Whitaker Straw, who allegedly changed it to Jack to associate himself with the romantic reputation of the first Jack Straw, one of England’s first socialists. Today Wat Tyler is chiefly remembered as the leader of the Peasants’ Revolt, but at the time Jack Straw was seen as the real hero.
The second half of the fourteenth century was a time of huge change. When the Black Death had killed off nearly a third of the population of Europe between 1348 and 1350, it had also freed the survivors from the feudal system, allowing them for the first time to work for whomever they chose and to charge as much as they liked. A panicked government passed a law that fixed wages and forbade peasants from leaving their villages. Those that ignored the law were heavily punished, but there was growing resentment among the workers at the unfairness of it all. The church was going through similar struggles, with popular figures like John Wycliffe campaigning for reform, insisting that the Church should give its monies back to the people rather than demanding further revenue in the form of huge taxes. The introduction of a new poll tax in 1379, ostensibly to finance a military campaign overseas, as part of the Hundred Years’ War (see also THE AGINCOURT), was to prove the final straw.
On 30 May 1381 a government bailiff arrived in the village of Fobbing in Essex to collect the tax, which had recently risen from one groat per person to three. He was met by a group of villagers led by local landowner Thomas Baker, who ran him out of town. When Robert Belknap, the chief justice, was sent to investigate the incident and punish the offenders, he too was attacked and had to beat a retreat, empty-handed, back to London.
The protest now spreading, Jack Straw, a former preacher, gathered the men of Essex at Great Baddow to march on London. In Kent, Wat Tyler, a blacksmith and form
er soldier, was doing the same. Things escalated when on 14 June a group of peasants stormed the Tower of London and executed Simon of Sudbury, the Lord Chancellor (seen as partially responsible for the poll tax) and Archbishop of Canterbury. Many believe they were actually let in by sympathetic guards, who did nothing to protect the unpopular archbishop.
By the time Wat Tyler and Jack Straw met in London, they had gathered an army of over 60,000 people, a serious threat to Richard II and, the king being only fourteen at the time, his regent John of Gaunt (see THE RED LION). King Richard bravely rode out with a small entourage to meet with the revolting peasants at Smithfield, the site of today’s famous meat market in London. Things might have turned out very differently if Straw had then taken the lead rather than Wat Tyler. Tyler, who had fought under the Black Prince at Crécy (see THE STAR AND GARTER), believed strongly that if the king heard the peasants’ woes he would change the laws and help them; Jack Straw, by contrast, had no such faith in royalty, and may have been more wary in his dealings with the king.
An overconfident (and rather starstruck) Tyler rode forward alone to meet the king. The royal entourage surrounded him and William Walworth, the Lord Mayor of London, drew his sword and ran the peasant through, killing him instantly. The young king then rode alone to the peasant army and assured the mob that their demands had been met and Tyler had been knighted, famously adding: ‘You shall have no captain but me.’ (Which was true, of course, now that Tyler was dead, but any ambiguity went unnoticed.) Apparently satisfied, the mob then left, dispersing and making their way back to their villages. With control soon re-established in the capital, the nobility were quick to react: breaking every promise the king had made, they gathered a force of 7,000 armed men and pursued the ring-leaders back into the countryside with ruthless brutality.
