The De Loutre Arms: The "Hart" and soul of White Water

 Dear Reader,
If you are touring the hills and valleys of the Pennines around the upper reaches of the Tees, and need to take rest and sustenance, I must recommend that you find your way to the delightful village of White Water.

Whilst it may not be the largest village in Northymbra, the pub at its heart can be deceptively tricky to find*, for although it is officially called The De Loutre Arms, this name is used by but one soul.

At first, I made to ask three young otters where the pub might be, as they played in the moat around the large manor on the southern side of the village. However, the sudden appearance of several heavily armed and armoured guards made me rethink approaching them. Evidently, I had just met the family of the local Lord!

I continued around the moat, following the gentle flow of the water, coming to an outlet stream which led me to a young sparrow named Eliza Barkle. I asked her about the De Loutre Arms, as she washed clothes in the river, but all she had for me was a blank stare. Eventually, she suggested trying Low Water, the next village downstream, but as I pressed her on the whereabouts of the village pub, she insisted she had never even heard of the De Loutre Arms. She guessed it was perhaps a jest name for the manor, home to the De Loutre family and correctly named White Water Holt. After a short while, a look of realisation dawned across Eliza's feathered features, before she exclaimed "Do you mean Hartley's?"

Well, it turns out that I did! With a burst of speed so emblematic of her kind, she was off, leading me past the manor and toward the centre of White Water; any thoughts of her laundry evaporating as excitement fizzed through her. Before me, stood a sizable detached house, with little to indicate it might be anything other than a private residence. Had it not been for Ms. Barkle's bright smile, I would never have ventured inside.
Through the front door is a fairly bare corridor, with a door at the far end, and one on either side; to one's right, a sign exclaiming "SHOLEE ONLY!!" I decided the left was therefore the best course to take, finding behind the door a cavernous, smoky interior. Despite a large window in the double height room, the shadows ran deep; the tables cloaked as if in secrecy, and the singular shaft of light illuminating a small bar on the far wall; a battered suit of armour and well worn weapons hung above it with obvious care. From behind the bar peered out a maimed visage, every bit as battle-worn as the the armour. The scar splitting the right eye and the large section missing from the lopped ear, along with the thousand mile stare, speaking of someone who has seen a lifetime of horrors on the battlefield. Just as I was beginning to think Ms. Barkle had led me to an early** doom, the beast leapt clear over the bar and landed before me, his wooden leg hitting the floorboards with a crack of thunder.

"Awright thare, young lassie!" There was a light in the hare's eyes and a joyful song in his voice that instantly put me at ease, "A've nae seen ye aroond 'ere afore. Urr ye freish tae th' area?" After the initial shock had worn off, I introduced myself and explained what The Tavern Tattle Tail is. "Och braw! Wid ye care fur a pint o' oor hoose Best? Oan th' hoose, o' coorse!" Well, I could hardly refuse such a generous offer. Before I knew it, I had been sat at a table, the curtains were flung wide and my host had disappeared behind the bar. With a little more light, I could see the room had an air of faded opulence; far from being left to rot and ruin, this felt more like it had been a very grand space, but elements had been deliberately removed. Even as I contemplated this, a fine wooden tankard slammed down in front of me. "By th' wey, they ca' me Hartley! This is ma pub, 'n' if yi''ll need anythin' at a', juist shout!" With a mischievous wink, he was off again, greeting more customers as they came in.

Without thinking I took a swig from my drink, and nearly choked! It wasn't a Best Bitter Hartley had served me, but a cider! Whilst there was nothing wrong with the drink itself***, I was certainly not expecting it! Once I had, once again, recovered from the shock (and embarrassment at having sputtered a good mouthful across the table) I approached Hartley to enquire about it. Apparently apples are a speciality of White Water, with orchards growing all around the village. The prevailing attitude seems to be that when nature places a bounty at your feet, you don't need to reach for a morsel over the horizon. It's certainly some of the better cider I've tasted, so one can see why. He apologised, and gently let me down by informing me that he didn't actually have any beer available, but offered a mead instead (and an exceptionally smooth, hearty one at that!), made from honey from hives raised in the orchards. Whilst he prepared it, we discussed the pub and how he came to own it. Apparently it's quite the tale of daring do!
In his early life, Hartley had been a soldier in Colonel De Loutre's forces; rising through the ranks to the Colonel's personal guard cadre. During the War of Storms, in the midst of a particularly viscous battle, Hartley put himself between the Colonel and the rusted cleaver swung by a brute of a brown rat. The action saved the Colonel's life, but cost Hartley his leg! As one would expect from such a horrific wound, along with the collection of others he received that day, Hartley was unable to continue with the campaign. For his valiant act, the Colonel called on his personal physician to stave off gangrene and restore what mobility they could, but it was clear that Hartley would never again march to war. Whilst many a veteran would find themselves destitute in such a dire situation, the Colonel once again took pity on his saviour, offering him a managerial role and lodgings within The De Loutre Arms.

For a few years, this arrangement worked well. Hartley ran the tavern with aplomb, ensuring no guest left anything less than fully satisfied. The building itself became akin to a shrine to the accomplishments of the De Loutre family, almost an extention of the grande hall in White Water Holt. By all accounts, it was a glorious place in every sense of the word. As with all things, the War came to an end, and the Colonel and what remained of his armies came home. It was a joyful occasion, with the De Loutre Arms the epicentre of celebrations. As time passed, the Colonel became restless, as is so often the case for military men with no battle to wage. He became more involved in the daily activity of White Water; interfering in everyone's business, but especially the running of the De Loutre Arms. His regular meddling at first irritated only Hartley, then the other staff, then the guests. In turn this started to drive away business, further irritating the Colonel and encouraging him to tighten his grip on the operation of the pub, squarely blaming Hartley for the loss of profits.

This came to a head in a very public altercation between the two, in front of the inn. The Colonel worked himself to a fit of rage as Hartley tried to explain why the Colonel's interfering was causing problems. Taking this as a slight against his honour, the Colonel challenged Hartley to a duel; only the outcry of the gathered crowd stayed his hand. Many a villager called him out as a coward for threatening a cripple, whilst others reminded the old soldier that Hartley had saved his life. As the guards descended to quell the riot before it began, one voice range out to silence all others.

"Howfur aboot a gam o' Cribbage?"

Hartley's compromise saved the day, with a bet being agreed that should Hartley win he would take full ownership of the De Loutre Arms. Otherwise, he would have no more than a day to remove himself from the village and never return!

For such a high stakes match, it was agreed that the usual 7 points would be insufficient to determine the better beast, so they played to 121. So that all could see the progress, a special Cribbage board was carved into the bar, and gold and silver pegs quickly forged by the local smithe. As you may imagine, this game lasted a very long time, with each play carefully considered, regular breaks between games, and the lead slipping back and forth between the players. As the sun set on each day, Hartley and the Colonel retired to their own rooms, whilst the board and cards were kept under constant vigil from the Colonels guards and respected residents to ensure there was no tampering. On the 7th day, with the score tied at 119 games apiece, Hartley was dealt a blessed hand and managed to lurch the Colonel! As the Colonel began to protest, the head of his guard slammed his mighty war hammer on the bar, lodging the Colonel's gold peg permanently at his last score, before gently placing Hartley's silver to the final mark and wordlessly repeating the process. There was to be no argument. To this day, those pegs from the final game are locked in place on the bar, a permanent reminder to the De Loutre family and all who enter Hartley's; not only of the result of the match, but also the righteousness of honouring one's debts.

Of course, the Colonel did try to take the matter to court, but found no favour from the witnesses even amongst his own men, let alone the disgruntled villagers. Even the magistrate seemed to delight in ruling against him (though being a fox of the Denning family, and thus a intergenerational enemy of the De Loutres, this may have been less than surprising), offering to safeguard the deed to the pub for Hartley in perpetuity. However, he did agree that much of the decoration with the De Loutre Arms were heirlooms of the family and would need to be returned to White Water Holt. The following day, the villagers helped remove every trace of the De Loutres from the pub, punctuated at the end by Hartley himself pulling down the sign above the door, to the resounding cheers of all assembled.

At least, that is the story as best as I can recall. I assure you that Hartley's dramatic retelling is far more thrilling, and worth a diversion to White Water for alone!
The history is all well and good, but what about the pub itself as, well... a pub? As I have said, there is no ale, and wine is similarly scarce, but the impressive range of ciders and meads should quench any thirst! Whilst I can't comment with any authority on the ciders, the Morning Sunshine spring mead was exceptionally easy to drink, with delicate floral notes underlying the rich sweetness. Contrastingly, Jallop's Special may risk blinding you with it's strength, but has a reassuring depth of complex flavours! Certainly one to enjoy in smaller quantities, perhaps best saved for the end of the night.

There is a fantastic menu available, which leans toward the cuisine of Franc (naturally, something that appeals to me greatly****). Whilst the food I tried was exemplary, it did come with a muttered warning from some of the locals; DO NOT send anything back... The reason behind which became clear later on.

I did enquire about the B.O.G. discount, much to the surprise of Hartley, as he had never heard of it! Without any beer I don't know whether Hartley's will be able to join, but he certainly seemed enthusiastic about the prospect. After that discussion, Hartley offered to give me "th' grand tour o' th' howf", calling over one of the young regulars to watch the bar in his absence. If nothing else, that shows the level of trust between the villagers of White Water. I do both hope and fear that this article may encourage more travellers to visit; hope in that it will bring more success to the village and pleasure to said travellers, but fear that this delicate balance may be undone should more ruthless players try to take advantage. Of course, many of the regulars are as combat hardened as Hartley, so I would think they will handle any rogues with ease...

From the main room, Hartley lead me through to a snug bar on the far side from the entrance. Far more cosy than the main room, but in lacking the high ceiling there was a permanent haze of pipe smoke. To the rear, a small doorway leads upstairs to the guest room. Whilst sparsely decorated, it is warm, dry and comfortable enough. The inn is very secure, and in a well warded town; short of nobility travelling with significant treasure (whom one would hope could thus afford the armsbeasts to protect them regardless), I would think it safe enough for all. Scholars and wordsmiths alike will especially enjoy the modest windows, for what they lack in a view*****, they more than make up for with the gilded light that filters through them late into the evening.

Back across the main bar, and to my great surprise, Hartley led me through the door I had rightly avoided on entering the pub, marked "SHOLEE ONLY!!" Here I was introduced to the inimitable Madame Sholee; the Shrew master chef who was single-pawedly crewing the kitchen. Around brief snippets of conversation, she was a whirling dervish, barely stopping at any station as dishes were prepared with a deft effortlessness that belied the work that was put into them. Clearly, she was intimately familiar with every square inch of the kitchen and every morsel of food in the stores. However, after a few moments of polite conversation, slipping easily between our mother- and adoptive-tongues, all was to come to a crashing halt.

The young hedgehog, who Hartley had pressganged to watch the bar, poked his head around the door. With obvious trepidation, and the quills down his back prickling upwards defensively, he informed the cook that someone had complained that the soupe à l'oignon was stale.

One has rarely seen such a transformation! The polite and elegant lady who had been speaking to us but moments before flew out the door, iron skillet in hand, razor teeth bared and wielding language that would make a dockbeast sound like a preacher during Yule! Hartley mumbled something about her being a great cook with a greater temper, before hurriedly explaining that his room was above the kitchen, then showing me the small vegetable and herb garden out behind the building.

I did not hear from Madame Sholee again during my stay, having been advised it was best to stay out of her way after such happenings. Nor did I see any sign of any patrons who had been "enjoying" a soup, though a chair remained suspiciously empty for the remainder of the evening, with a dark, viscous puddle beneath that one did not care to look too closely at.
To conclude; Hartley's is a welcoming and happy place, swimming in cider and mead. The food is exquisite, if not to everyone's taste, and the accommodation worthy of reasonable detour. Heed the local warnings and mind the legendary tale, and you will find yourself a welcome guest of one of the most affable publicans this writer can recall.

Your faithful servant,

Madam E.d.A-M

* I promise this will not become a theme of these guides!

** Before you pass comment on that, dear Reader, remember that one does not ask a lady her age. If one knows what is good for them...

*** regular readers will recall cider is not to my taste.

**** The wild garlic escargot with roast fennel was almost exactly as I remember our cook making it before we moved from Lugdunum. Treasured childhood memories, indeed!

***** The town square is delightful, if a little muddy, but the full majesty of the Pennines is somewhat blocked by the sizable smithy. The view from the guest room would be greatly improved if the business could be relocated but a handful of yards down the road...