The pub where time stands still (From York Press)

The pub where time stands still

9:50am Saturday 7th January 2012 in Pints of View By Guzzling Gav

The Black Swan, Peasholme Green, York

GAVIN AITCHISON visits a pub worthy of being a museum

LOOK around you at the Black Swan on Peasholme Green and you could almost be in a museum. Every beam, every corner, every random artefact seems to ooze history. Time, in places, appears to have stood still for decades. It’s tremendous.

The walls, shelves, fireplaces and alcoves are littered with old-world bric-a-brac. A candle-snuffer here; a sword there; everywhere you turn, memories and memorabilia.

There’s an old stone hot water bottle above the bar, a ball and chain nearby, a rocking horse tricycle in the fireplace, and trinkets and ornaments aplenty.

Against the window stands a collection of old beer bottles glinting in the light; above the fireplace, a mish-mash of pots; in the corner, an intricate walking stick; and on more than one wall, plaques in memory of long-lost regulars.

Over here, a helmet; over there, a malt shovel. Curiosities everywhere, beneath every timber beam and behind every sloping door, in every subtly-lit room.

My favourite piece is the clay pipe, which sits in a clear plastic case in the back-room. It was found during renovation work in 1966 but is engraved 1828; a tantalising teaser from the pub’s long past. It’s impossible to look at it without imaging it in use and wondering about who owned it. The pipe of the unknown smoker, you could call it.

Whoever he was, I like to think he’d enjoy the Black Swan today as much as he did then, the modern-day smoking ban aside.

It has certainly changed since he was around, major restorations having been carried out in the 1930s and 1960s, but it remains medieval at heart, a joy for an everyday pub-man, and a building with an illustrious past.

Once upon a time, it was the house of York-born Sir Martin Bowes, Lord Mayor of London in 1545. A century or so later, it was the family home of Mr and Mrs Wolfe, whose son James became a national hero when he secured Canada for the British Empire.

A plaque on the front wall acknowledges the history but today the Black Swan is as well-known for being a music venue as for anything else. The folk club, held in the upstairs room every Thursday night, draws a big crowd of regular customers, and it’s safe to say there can’t be many venues anywhere in Yorkshire quite so atmospheric.

Indeed in lesser cities than York, this place would be deemed too precious for it to be used as a pub. It would, heaven forbid, be billed as a tourist attraction instead and visitors would pay for the privilege of entering. But not here. In York, this is just another slice in the rich gateau of history, and all you have to pay for is your sustenance. Mighty good sustenance it is too. The food is fantastic; the portions vast; and the beer range heartening.

On the bar when I popped in were Copper Dragon Golden Pippin, Theakston’s Old Peculier and Caledonian Deuchars, as well as John Smith’s Extra Cold, Guinness, Carling, Fosters, Magners and Kronenbourg.

I plumped for a pint of Deuchars, settled down in the corner table beside the pipe, took a stab at The Times crossword, and then found myself wondering aimlessly about the countless thousands who had been here before me over the years. Afternoons don’t get much more leisurely.

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