The Woody, Douglas
Another potential for the Superpubs of 2024 list.
I’ve been travelling to the Isle of Man since I was very little, but until last month, I’d never had the pleasure of visiting Woody’s, The Woodbourne Hotel; a local pub that I’d never heard of until a friend suggested we all meet up there after the day’s racing. Or not. As it happens, this year’s Manc GP was plagued by terrible weather and unfortunate fluke incidents—a sewer burst all over the road at Union Mills, for one thing—so we had been drinking tinnies in O’Kelly’s, a private front garden on Bray Hill, waiting for delayed races to begin for most of the day.
It’s a fantastic spot. You stand in the driveway and hear the roar of engines through the radio commentary, then, half a minute later, you hear it for real. Your racers fly by one by one, inches from where you stand, bikes compressing down into the dip and then nipping over Ago’s Leap and onwards to Quarterbridge.
Once the roads opened—you can’t cross the course roads during race time for obvious reasons—we set off en masse from the front garden to The Woody. My friend Pete told me it was his favourite pub on the island, and Anna-Marie, whose garden we’d been skulking in all day, told me it had the best atmosphere of any pub anywhere. And she’d know—she works there. The walk to The Woodbourne took us through residential streets I’d never had cause to walk down before, revealing parts of Douglas I didn’t know existed. There are whole Victorian squares set back from the promenade, with pretty parks and towering beech trees. Pete made us all stop and look at one house to admire its curved glass windows.
In amongst the terraces of Victorian villas we came to The Woodbourne, a gorgeously presented red brick 19th century pub.
The tower-turret on the corner took my breath away. A castle of a pub! Could this really be the “old man pub” I was promised? I said I wanted scruffy and friendly, and was assured that this was it. The immaculate frontage told me something else.
“Get inside!”
I was too busy taking blurry photographs of the brickwork and exterior decorations to realise that everyone had gone inside already and I’d lost them to the pub. In the picture above you can see Anna-Marie coming back outside again to tell me to hurry up.
The first room on your right is a glowing surprise. The highest ceilings sit loftily over an imposing marble fireplace, a bay window table nestled perfectly into the corner turret, and a gorgeous curved bar polished to within an inch of its life. Natural light soaks the room, despite the clouds outside. Scruffy? Never. Before I can order a pint I’m called into another room by one of our growing group, and on the way out of the stunning front room I glimpse the pool room. I’m being dragged to the “Gent’s Bar”.
As deeply chestnut as you’d want it to be, the Gent’s Bar is open to all now, but the unspoken rule is that this is where the locals sit. If somebody wants their seat back, you have to give it to them. This snug in the centre of the building feels like an Edwardian train carriage, everyone packed in together amicably, its little booth seats overlooked by cartoons and paintings that know the secrets of this town, and well-used hand pulls that serve Woodbourne Street’s locals the beer they need to do some much-needed gossiping.
We weren’t staying in the Gent’s Room though. It’s too small, and we were too noisy. I was led further down the corridor to the back bar, where somehow we’d multiplied into a rowdy bunch of 12. Basic white walls and a well-stocked bar on first glance became signed photographs of TT racers and etched glass windows. It took my eyes a little time to adjust from the burnished glory of the Gent’s Room, but once I could see it for the perfect little boozer that it was, I was at home. Behind the bar, every single team member was friendly and happy to chat about anything at all. Nobody complained about our constant roars of laughter. A man I’d never met before chatted to me about how much he loves the Isle of Man Southern 100 and made me promise to visit for it next year. The pints were cheap and fresh-tasting and served in whatever glassware was to hand. This is not a criticism. Somehow on top of everything, this added to the experience. The vibes were immaculate. I never wanted to leave. Neither did Tom, which is highly unusual.
According to local historian Mark Shimmin, The Woody used to generate its own electricity in the basement back in 1895, and provided electricity to some of the surrounding neighbourhood too. This video interview with Mark and the Woodbourne’s landlord Trevor Latus was broadcast by Isle of Man TV that details more of the pub’s pretty fascinating history—and it also has footage of the pub’s original plans which are just beautiful.
And if that doesn’t encourage you to watch it, this screenshot of a newspaper article about the pub’s refurbishment might.
Other Stuff
Track Brewing are holding a green hop harvest festival in October, which sounds wonderful
Kilian Jornet continues to be extra-terrestrial: he just completed the Alpine Connections, which is 82 peaks in 19 days
“Buy yourself one fancy little plate” - incredible advice from Bettina Makalintal
I really like Jacob Smith’s writing and this week he wrote about Cairn o’Mohr for Pellicle, a brand I know well from drinking their fruit wine as a teenager
A touching piece by Lucy Dearlove on how difficult it is to grow things (and how guilt, personal failings, and all sorts of other things are tied up in gardening when it doesn’t go well)
Hazelnuts and economics, by Hank Shaw over at To The Bone
My Stuff
I’m hosting a beer tasting at Fell Brewery’s Oktoberfest at The Royal Oak, Cartmel
Bread rolls were in the news (on Twitter) again this week so here’s my reminder that I wrote the be-all and end-all about what they are called and did not get a single Nobel for it
I wrote about Fernet Branca for The Guardian (nb. this is a paid promotional piece)