The end of an Institution
Back when I met my husband, I used to smoke a pipe.
It was a habit I started—hooked on the sweet scent of my then ex-boyfriend’s pipe tobacco—shortly before setting off to Africa, and it has stood me in good stead around many campfires and in many a cosy bar on cold winter evenings.
For our first date, my hubby-to-be took me on a Sunday outing with the Oxford University Motorcycle Club. I rode pillion on his Yamaha RS100 along winding lanes to a quaint old pub in the Cotswold village of Great Tew. The pub is called the Falkland Arms, not with reference to the then recent war, but because the Falklands were named after the local lord of the manor, who no doubt frequented it.
Following an honoured tradition, the pub serves real Ale and cider and a selection of local wines and mead (I remember sampling the birch wine—not bad). They also sold clay pipes and a selection of fruit tobaccos to be enjoyed by the open fire.
Alas, no more. Two weeks ago, we celebrated our wedding anniversary with our last ever pipe smoked on the premises, at least inside. (Well OK, on the premises, taking the British weather into account.) And yesterday, my husband, some mates and I puffed our last in our local around the corner.
I remember my pipe-smoking days well. I remember sharing a small bong that I had bought in Kathmandu and stuffed with my favourite tobacco (Danish Black Luxury) with an off-duty pilot on a Syrian Arab Airlines flight en-route to a stop-over in Damaskus. I also remember the outcry when pipe smoking was banned on flights not much later. I joined in, but I had to admit to myself that a single pipe was quite capable of stinking up an entire airplane.
Pipes were replaced by cigarettes when my life became more hectic: a few quick gasps over a pint rather than a languid smoke accompanied by a fine whisky or brandy. I have always missed smoking a pipe; I tend to forget how easily the stuff singes the mouth, turns acrid and stains the teeth. The exception to this is smoking a shisha, which has been a favourite past-time of mine in Egypt, and once on the Edgware road, where dozens of shisha cafés are about to go out of business.
I remember Australia earlier this year, where a few backpacker places circumvent the draconian anti-smoking laws by putting up benches and tables in the smoking area, although bar staff keep an eye on us, making sure we don’t get too comfortable.
Late-ish one night on Magnetic Island, with the staff all busy inside the bar, a Moroccon expat snug into the Xbase‘s smoking area with a full-sized shisha in tow and—so help me—a tin of glowing coals. He invited us all around to share and so it came that I smoked my first shisha under the Southern Cross, until the spoilsports from the bar chased him away.
Yes, we can still smoke outside, at least for now. But if I want to get a good drenching, I’ll have a shower thank you. And apparently you’re not supposed to loiter by the tables outside the Edgware road cafés for more than twenty minutes, so that tradition is dead too.
I lament the passing of what has become part of my personal culture, although the days of lazy pipe-puffing are long gone. That was a gradual transition, and it is nice to get back to it now and again. Perhaps in my old age, I’ll take it up again, if tobacco can still be bought legally (or otherwise obtained).
The smell of smoke and crackling fires has always signalled a good time, from my father’s puffing away on his cigar next to the hearth during Sunday outings to the village pub, right up to yesterday’s chat over a few pints with ghastly country-and western music blaring on a loop in the background, in competition with the plasma TV.
Yes, smoking is bad for you. All the best things in life are. Boozing is bad for you too, and costs many lives. Teetotallers would welcome it if the sale of alcohol was banned.
Personally, I don’t like cars with their stench and their noise-pollution and the downright danger they represent. Nobody should have the right to drive a private vehicle (I don’t, so there!).
Watch out, you could be next!
Denni
October 9th, 2007 at 20:44
I came across this post while googling for something else. I write a beer blog, and visited the Falkland Arms on the last day of smoking. I’ve never been a smoker, but puffed on a clay pipe in their to see the ban in!nrnrBy coincidence Patrick Stewart the actor was at the table next to us.nrnrI’d published a blog post with photos here:
http://stonch.blogspot.com/2007/07/lighting-up-for-last-time-at-falkland.html
Cheers
October 10th, 2007 at 13:10
Thanks for that, Stonch. It’s a great read and a great blog!