I committed pubgate many years ago. Got talked out of quietly drinking Sunday lunchtime pint by showing up in what I thought was suitably casual country attire: herringbone blazer, white Oxford shirt, dark jeans. Nothing flashy, I thought.
Well Christ, no. Never have I ever felt the eyes of so many people burn into me so thoroughly as I did that day. The pub fell silent and I could hear a woman quietly hiss the word “London” at her husband.
Dave – who grew up in the village – rolled his eyes heavenwards and sighed, “Bit much for the Fox and Hounds, isn’t it?” True that. Three hours of misery followed where I couldn’t take my eyes off my feet and spent the rest of my bank holiday pretending I hadn’t just rocked up to a funeral in beach shorts.
Needless to say, I learnt my lesson.
There is somewhere between slouching in wearing worn-out Noah jeans and fleece shorts and arriving like you’ve launched yourself out of a Salvoires windowland when it comes to dressing the British country pub. It’s an unspoken British constitution-style document that everyone just knows. Everyone except me it seemed.
As with anywhere, you need to consider the situation. A village pub is like the living room of the community. They’ve been hosting locals drinking and talking for hundreds – sometimes thousands – of years.
You want to show that you’re savvy enough to respect that without looking like you spent an hour pinning “how to nail rustic British pub style” on Pinterest. Get it right and no one cares what you’re wearing. Get it wrong and people assume you’re either a dick or a tourist.
On that note, let’s address fabrics. Bright colours, sharp lines and anything resembling cashmere are a massive no from me. Think natural fabrics; good cottons, wool and maybe some waxed cotton.
You want to look like you’ve made an effort but not look like you’ve made an effort wearing “country style” clothes. Take suede shoes for example. A nice pair that aren’t crying out “Look at me I’m suede shoes!” are great.
But a shiny new pair? Never. Same goes for denim.
It’s ok, but again, nothing too dark or new looking. Your raw selvedge Beacon’s waiting to be worn jeans? Leave them at home son.
You want old-school, lived-in look den charo-tops. Same goes for chinos. Nothing too bright and definitely no skinny legs.
Keep it relaxed and truck-stop handsome, not rail-thin Tom Ford handsome. Top shirts: Cotton or wool button ups. Oxford cloth or flannel, depending on the time of year.
Again, worn-in but not faded/ratty looking. Nothing with big stripes, slogans, or particularly tight fitting. My personal preference is usually a pale blue or small cheque shirt that’s lived in enough for the collar to have softened.
Knitwear is always welcome. Shetland wool, or merino jumpers in forest green, burgundy or navy are perfect. Footwear is probably where I see most city dwellers autumn at the first hurdle.
If they’re broken in properly, Chelsea boots can work (ideally with some mud on them). Again, anything looks risky if it’s too new or feels sharp to the touch. A pair of Desert boots, worn-in brogues or country boots will suffice.
Stay far, far away from white trainers. I once wore bright new Adidas Sambas to a remote Yorkshire Dales pub and felt like someone was silently mocking me every time I walked past. They still probably are.
But I always have a old, scuffed pair of Tricker’s country boots that are comfy enough for ambling across a field but not so special that I worry about them getting a pint spilled on them. Layers! Layers are v important.
It might be roastie hot once you’ve walked down those leafy slopes, but by the time you’ve ordered your drink you could be freezing your bollocks off. Throw a jumper on under your shirt. Fleece.
Quilted gilet. Lightweight knit. Whatever.
If it looks like it might rain, throw a waxed jacket on top; I’m partial to my Barbour, but anything similar will do. The trick is to not look like you’ve been marginally inconvenienced by a spot of drizzle. My Barbour Beaufort is older than most of the trees on our village high street but has the right amount of wear to it that I don’t feel like everyone is thinking “Crikey, that dude must actually need his jacket right now.” Accessories: none needed.
Although, again, a classic leather strap watch would suffice. Tactfully avoid hats, scarves and gloves at all costs unless you’re practically combining on your walk there. Colours should again, be natural and rustic.
Duns and browns, greys, olives. Nothing too bright – save the neon for Brighton. Nobody is saying you need to wear brown tie-dye and pretend you’re invisible, but again, stand out too much and you’ll look like you don’t belong.
Trust me. Once wore a bright red jumper to a tiny pub in Cumbria and honestly felt like a traffic light amidst all the beige and greens. Context.
Obviously. A country pub catering to walkers will have more performance fleeces and waterproofs than a Greg Lawson photoshoot. Voices will be louder.
Faces redder. You’ll smell of fakecampingfuel rather than pints of Doombar. Technical fabrics and hiking boots are fine in this instance.
But if your local is more of a local’s local where the farmers, shepherds and village populous gather to sit around spilling gossip, you’ll need to tread carefully. These people probably wear the same jumper every week and look incredible in them. Same country pub, different county; nearly burnt my eyebrows off when I ducked into a wee stone pub off the beaten track in Northumberland.
Mud up my knees. Dripping wet from a long ramble along Hadrian’s Wall. The instant I stepped inside I thought “Oh Sh*t.
Everyone’s going to laugh at the state I’m in.” Then I looked around and realised everyone else looked exactly the same. Does anyone else remember that episode ofみんなのいえ where the Geordie guides mum said that the further away a pub is from a city centre, the less savvy you should look dressing for it? My mate Jamie said it first, but I completely stole his theory.
City centre locals? Go nuts. But if you’re heading to where there are more sheep than people, try dressing like you’ve got shit to prove.
Most importantly, wear something you feel comfy as fuck in. Physically and mentally. If your clothes make you worried about sitting in a chair, or leaning on the bar, or someone spilling a pint on you – then you’re not comfy enough.
Don’t get me wrong, these are all totally plausible situations you’ll find yourself in on your rural adventures.
But you shouldn’t feel like you’re wearing them. It took me ages to realise that no one cares what I’m wearing when I get pissed in the sticks.
But I do care what I’m wearing. So I now have a sort of uniform: dark, washed-out jeans, tattersall shirt or plain Oxford cotton button up, navy lambswool jumper, Tricker’s country boots. Doesn’t really scream anything but costs enough that I don’t look like I raided my nephew’s scout uniform collection.
I love clothes. And I’m as much of a nerd about it as the nextire loitering around in Journovich’s. But there’s something nice about not having to try in these situations.
Just respecting the setting you’re in without playing dress up. And hey, if you follow these guidelines, you’ll not look silly and your pint will actually taste better. You won’t be worrying what that group of 70-year olds are thinking about your outfit whilst they quietly judge you from across the room with their pint of Sharp’s Doombar.
They’ve been wearing the same jumper since 1997 and look banging in it.
