Opposite, with one side to the road and the other to the lane, was The Plough. Old Jim who ran it was an irritable character, reminiscent of a grumpy adult from a Roald Dahl book. He even looked like he’d been hand drawn by Quentin Blake, all crooked lines and scruffily shaded in. Jim brewed himself (not a beer I would part with hard earned cash for!) and held a beer festival of sorts each year. The pub had no telly, a few handpulls and served food on tables built from ancient Singer sewing machines.

Less than a very short stones throw away was the pub I spent most time in, The Bakers (officially The Bakers Arms). I played for the pool team, had a brief stint behind the bar for a few months and learnt to play 3s and 5s with Mo the landlady. The bar was small, with an even smaller lounge to one side and down a hall a smaller again pool room. Atleast 3 Leeds fans frequented it and whilst the beer was all kegged big brand brews, there was one handpull (Hooky or a cask from one of the larger national breweries). I learned to drink with John Smiths smooth, Snakebite & Black (or Diesel if you prefer) and cold, crisp Carling –  valuable lessons for my first weeks at university.

There were weeks I’d not step in The Plough or the Jockey at all, and then days where I’d do all three. Each one was different and each one had different regulars. Each one also had drinkers who went through stages of favouritism and all had odd deserters who jumped ship from time to time. Each pub was needed and they are all still there, open for lunch and evenings where possible.

I returned this Christmas. Popping up the Bakers I bumped into two old friends within seconds. The sports teams still compete all through the week: darts, pool, dominoes, Aunt Sally in the summer and a weekly quiz. I spotted Scott, the pool team captain, still popping in for an after work pint. Mo, since retired, was starting up dominoes in the corner. Hannah was behind the bar. I nipped to The Plough with my Dad.  Surprisingly they’d invested in a single flat screen tv in the bar area and dolled up the lounge, it almost looked like a restaurant. Jim had handed over to his son and possibly even someone else since but no-one quite knew.

These pubs are real pubs. Community pubs. They don’t make huge margins on beer sales, no matter how its served or what brand it is. They feed the local football team on a Saturday, they play cards on a Friday; people go there for warmth, to imbibe and to leave the day or the week behind.

These pubs won’t win a CAMRA award. But they are the most important community centres in the area they serve.