Sailors and traders alike will be well aware of the thriving port towns along the Tamesis. Whilst Luneden may be the most famous and prosperous, there are many more gems to be found as you follow the great river toward the sea. Alas, Beamfleot is not one of them...
Nestled in the salt marshes along the northern shore at the very mouth of the river (and therefore sat on the very boundary of the kingdom of Anglia), the village has very little to promise prospective visitors, save being one of the first havens for ships on the Tamesis itself. Taking advantage of the many small, rocky outcrops* that burst from the mire of the marshes, Beamfleot hovers above the waterline on wooden piles, with each building connected by seemingly rotten walkways, jetties and piers. For all their aesthetic failings, the structures are surprisingly strong, as demonstrated by the regular docking of ships and transfer of cargo. As is so often the case with coastal ports, fishing provides regular income and sustenance for many of the inhabitants. It also provides a strong odour that seems to permeate every fibre of the village; one that I am sure even those beasts with the weakest sense of smell won't fail to notice...At the centre of this accretion of flotsam is The Red Barrel. Not a literal cask of vermilion hue, though a few do adorn the outside of the building, but a tavern by that name. Sitting squat on its stilts, the dark weather-beaten timbers could blend to a storm wracked sky, but for the bright, heavy set thatch roof capping the silhouette. As I visited during such inhospitable weather, I was exceedingly glad to cross the threshold to find the inside temperature more affable than the outward appearance suggested.
Whilst the large, central fireplace casts a warming glow throughout the building, the same cannot be said for the welcome from the locals. I was eyed with suspicion from the moment I arrived until I took my leave, and fear the same fate would befall any traveller passing through. Well, perhaps not all; whilst one does their utmost to not pry in such situations, it was all but impossible to not overhear snippets of conversations around the room. It would appear that those with goods to trade may find a more welcoming reception, particularly where such interactions may tend toward the illicit. Even then, it seems that certain ships may curry greater favour than most, with the locals accepting certain beasts more readily than others.
Perhaps describing the clientele of The Red Barrel as "locals" is a slight misnomer. Of course, the beasts of Beamfleot make fair use of their tavern, but barely form the majority. Given the number of seafaring beasts that stopped in during my visit, ranging from the lowliest deck hands to Quartermasters and Captains, along with their land-based counterpart labourers and traders, the patronage may better be described as "regulars". Whether one can become such simply by habit or if some other indoctrination to the clique is required can only be guessed at; certainly none of the "in" crowd seemed forth-coming.
An exception to this othering behaviour, as one might expect, is the owner himself; one Mr Watt Ney. Not only the publican, but also the Master brewer, producing all the ale for The Red Barrel in a surprisingly small shed, on the rocks adjacent to the tavern. Justifiably proud of his produce, I learned that Mr Ney named the tavern after his most prized brew, Red Barrel Ale. This deeply flavoursome amber ale (one could be forgiven for expecting a ruby, but alas) is rich with biscuity malts, balanced perfectly with sharp, citrusy Kentish hops, grown not far from the south bank of the Tamesis. Quite where he gets the water from, he would not say, but I am certain that it could not be filtered from the brackish filth that languishingly oozed and frothed between the buildings of the village.
As fellow appreciators of fine beer, we were able to hold quite a pleasant conversation, between Mr Ney serving the other patrons of the tavern, of course. Aside from the titular brew, he has dabbled in a variety of styles, which I was fortunate enough to sample several of over the course of the evening. From light Weissbier, to Luneden-styled porters and stouts, this mole seems to excel at all, working seasonally as the raw ingredients are traded through Beamfleot. I did enquire as to why Mr Ney had not set himself up with a larger brewery, and for that matter why he was to be found so far from solid ground, where one might expect to find his kith and kin. However, on this note his previously genial demeanour turned comparatively stony, finding other guests in need of service. One fears that this may be a question to whit the answer would never voluntarily come.
As a B.O.G. member, Mr. Ney offered a discount across all the ales he brewed, though not quite as generous as the B.O.G. Standard. However, this was somewhat offset by a similar discount on the meals offered at The Red Barrel. As one can predict, given the location of the village and the general diet previously mentioned, the menu primarily consists of seafood dishes. Varying from day-to-day, based on what was hauled in by the local fisherbeasts, The Red Barrel caters to all appetites and budgets, offering such delicacies as whole battered pike with all the trimmings, down to shrimp head pie, and everything in between. One would suggest sticking to the meals in the middle of the price range and upward, should your coin purse allow, though I did not see any customer less than happy with their choices. The Trout fillets in watercress sauce I sampled were delectable, and perfectly portioned to my mind, though I would understand if larger beasts disagreed. The cook, Mr Ney's sister, Hon, seems perfectly capable on her own in the busy kitchen. Then again, perhaps the lack of complaints are equally a result of the loaded blunderbus leaning against the wall, just inside the kitchen doorway...
As busy as the tavern was, the poor weather kept everyone crowded inside. One can imagine a pleasant summer's evening, sat on the small dock attached to the rear of the tavern**, watching the river drift lazily by with a cool drink in hand. Indeed this is the picture Mr. Ney described to me when eschewing the virtues of The Red Barrel! He also pointed out a number of snugs around the main room that can be curtained off, allowing a certain level of privacy. This may be ideal for those travellers who wish to avoid the scrutiny of the regulars (or those wishing to make "trade arrangements" without being eavesdropped), but as a singular traveller, I feared I might find such an arrangement rather lonely and isolating.
Speaking of travels, it is important to note that The Red Barrel is very much a tavern and not an inn. There is no accommodation on-site, save for a small space at the back of the building for the Neys themselves. Whilst there are a few lodgings available around Beamfleot, they appear to be held in perpetual reserve for the senior crew of the trading ships, with tenancy agreements based on the tide rather than more common arrangements one experiences in land. One would assume they would have quarters aboard their own ships, but then again one prefers to traverse the mountain passes and ancient roadways than the shipping lanes. Perhaps the best suggestion is to travel on from Beamfleot to another near-by town in Anglia, though this will of course curtail your drinking time.
And so on to my conclusion. I am afraid I cannot in good faith recommend The Red Barrel as a destination of choice. Certainly Beamfleot is an intriguing place to see, given how few villages are built directly on the water as opposed to along the shoreline, but therein lies the end to its appeal. Naturally, those with business in the area will be inclined to disagree, but that is there prerogative. The Red Barrel itself is not as welcoming as one would hope; doing little to ingratiate itself to those who wish to lighten their coin purse, and lacking sufficient space to accommodate many souls beyond its regular patrons for much of the year.
However, if one happens to be passing by, perhaps leaving Luneden by water or as part of a tour of the Anglian coast, I do believe it is worth the minor diversion to try Mr Ney's ales. I do hope that one day he may distribute them further afield, as they are very much deserving of broader appreciation. I suspect this may garner attention that he is desperately trying to avoid however, so I shall not hold my breath.
As ever, your faithful servant,
Madam E.d.A-M
*One could scarcely call them islands, by any sensible measure.
**Apparently all the surrounding walkways are used in such a manner during the heat of summer, though one imagines the regular movement of cargo and ships would disturb and take precedence over those attempting to relax. One also dreads to imagine what the unrelenting stench may be like at those temperatures!
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