Last Night at the Ship Inn

“We loved Vancouver,” said Angela, “especially its location with the sea and the mountains.” One of the wardens at the Blaxhall youth hostel, Angela, along with her husband Steve, had visited Vancouver in 2002 as part of their world-tour. “We only spent six weeks in Western Canada, visiting Banff, Jasper, and all the usual places,” she said, “The hostels were nice and clean too. Stanley Park is such a wonderful place to relax.”

My wife Tania and I had arrived at their youth hostel in the hamlet of Blaxhall in Eastern England about 16 hours after leaving Vancouver. Our British Airways flight had been smooth and the drive from Heathrow around the M25 had been relatively easy, though at one point I had almost fallen asleep at the wheel. 

At around seven in the evening, after we had unpacked our bags, I casually asked Steve whether there was a pub in Blaxhall. “There’s just the one,” he said, “It’s called The Ship and to get there you turn left out of the hostel and follow the road around. The pub is about 300 yards on the left.”

With the birds chirping in the trees and the scent of wildflowers wafting around us we strolled to The Ship. We found it quite easily and saw someone sitting outside, swirling some red wine around a medium-sized glass. He looked quite cheerful and was wearing a sunhat to keep out the rays of the gradually fading sunlight.

“Who might you two be?” he said

“Two alcoholics,” I said, half-jokingly, as I really needed a drink after all the travelling we had done.

“Well, I am your man,” he said, “What can I get you two?”

We ordered a pint and a half of one of the local ales, Norfolk Wherry. I drank about half my pint straightaway, I was so thirsty. We explained we were both a little jet-lagged, as we had just flown into England from Vancouver.

“Vancouver,” he said, “Really, well I’ll bet that I lived there before both of you ever did.”

Tania, who has lived in Vancouver all her life was quite taken aback by this bold assertion, “So, when were you there then?”

“Oh 1964, 1965, it was a little village then really. I bet it’s changed now, I bet there has been a lot of growth.”

We nodded in agreement.

“I remember the old clapboard houses on that road down to the park. Do they still have the gun? I wish I had bought a property there. I wouldn’t be here now if I had.” With this he gazed wistfully out over the hedgerows towards the trees of the Forest of Rendlesham on the horizon, “I left in 1966, to come back to bury my father and I was always intending to go back, but I never did. I bought this place five years ago, but this is the last night,” he gestured at me, “You are drinking the last pint that will ever be served here, I am closing the place and I have been celebrating all day.” He raised his glass to us with a cheerful grin on his face as he said the final few words.

Blaxhall has a population of around 180, most of whom are either elderly or only own a property there as a second- or holiday-home. Such a small population doesn’t make the running of a country pub economically viable any longer, especially when there are other licenses to be bought, to allow for the daily serving of food and for live entertainment to take place on two nights per week. There are also regular inspections by the fire service which have to be paid for.

“I worked in a place called Ocean Falls for a while,” the landlord continued, “an interesting place shall we say. I did very well, I lasted six weeks,” he chuckled to himself, “When I was there, you only saw the sun for two minutes per day as it poked above the mountains. I worked at the lumber mill. People were either drunk or getting drunk most of the time. I bunked with a Native American, who played his music all night long. There was always a fair amount of trouble there; you’d quite often see blood in the snow, where locals had been hacking at each other. The mill used to produce a huge plume of smoke and pollution and all this stuff was just pumped into the atmosphere. After that I went back to Vancouver and worked in a shipyard on False Creek for a while. And then my father died and that was it.”

With this, he got up to pour himself another glass of vino rosso. A car turned round in the road in front of us and the passenger hailed our host with the words, “Where is your son-in-law?” “He isn’t here, he has gone away for the weekend,” was our host’s reply. He then gestured at us, “These people are from Vancouver.” The passenger looked at us, “Really? We went there a few years ago, wonderful totem poles, but we really liked ..” but the driver zoomed away leaving the passenger’s further comments on the wind.

By now, we had finished our drinks and were almost falling asleep. We made our excuses and wished the landlord all the best for the future. He replied, “Vancouver has got the Olympics in 2010 hasn’t it, the Winter ones of course. Yes, that is two years before they are here. Oh well, I expect it will keep the Queen busy at least,” and with that he got up, went back into the pub and bolted the door behind him. The Ship at Blaxhall had closed for the last time.