The sad death of the English pub

It was a drizzly Tuesday evening in the 17th-century Oxford village pub I manage, the kind of night when regulars huddle close to the bar, pints glowing amber under low lights. An old chap in a flat cap, nursing his third ale, grumbled about the council’s latest parking scheme. The village curate, leaning on the bar, sparred with the local councillor over the steep cost of saving the church roof. A young couple, new to the area, weighed London against Oxford, sneaking glances at the football on the telly.

For a moment, the pub hummed with life – a microcosm of England, where strangers turn mates and the day’s weight lifts in shared chatter. At their best, pubs are living rooms for the nation. They stand shoulder to shoulder with churches, their closest neighbours – the pub’s warm glow mirrored by the stained glass across the lane, twin guardians of village life.