Pint of the usual
The Grapes, 14 Westgate Street, Bath
A pint of The Usual in The Grapes, a longstanding freehold pub on Westgate Street. Brewed in nearby Frome, The Usual is an amber best bitter and fitting for a nondescript Tuesday afternoon in Bath. At this time of year, with the winter sun struggling to push past a deep wall of cloud, the buildings lose their golden hue. They darken. Turn almost solemn.
It’s my first visit to The Grapes. Memory tells me that it used to be a locals’ den, the fixtures and fittings not having changed much from the 70s. The pub, to be fair, dates back to 1792. It’s had a facelift since I last lived in Bath during the late aughts. Despite being a worthy finalist for best urban pub in 2022, I find it less of a pub and more dive bar. And, believe me, I say dive bar in all the good ways.
The music, a bit punk, sometimes a bit reggae, is loud for 3pm. The drinkers, in turn, grow ever louder as they attempt to converse over it. The clash of noise makes the bar seem busier than it is. The atmosphere is great. I’m enjoying my pint. I’m happy writing this. So far, The Grapes is winning me over.
There are big metal urns of mulled cider and glühwein on the bar, but, like the coffee machine, this is not what we’re here for. We’re here for beer and to escape the December cold. Offerings from Bristol Beer Factory, wild fermented ciders from Iford, ales from Frome Brewing Company—there is a lot of good stuff being fermented around these parts.
I can tell you that Bridgerton was not filmed along Westgate Street, blending into Cheap Street as you head east towards the river. These roads are not, shall we say, your typical Bath-heritage pretty. Home to a Poundland, an array of fast food outlets from Subway to Pieminster, charity shops, nail bars, and the fluorescent assault that is Superdrug.
After a visit to the Abbey, tourists are forced to walk along Westgate Street as they follow guides in search of the theatre. They won’t find a Bath Bun for sale here; more likely a Big Issue seller, cigarette butts along the curb, and the chance to purchase a stapler from the stationery shop opposite another Bath institution and Guinness pitstop, Flan O’Brien’s—some things haven’t changed since I last lived here in the late aughts. It’s these thoroughfares to the real city, however, that come to mean the most.
‘We’ve been a pub longer than the United States has been a country and we are arguably more stable.’
The bartender—wearing tracksuit trousers, a flaming THRASHER t-shirt and cap—has stolen a moment for a smoke outside. He gets in all of two drags before seeing a gent through the window waiting at the bar. Pint pulled, he’s out again, speed smoking.
Now nearing 4pm and the front door is opening more and more. The tables are filling up and beer, along with a couple of mulled ciders and wine, is being poured. The Grapes along Westgate Street is ripe with pre-christmas cheer.
