The Red Lion slumbers; the Swan is stilled; the Bell is silent; the Star is dimmed. Across our locked-down land pubs are shuttered, drip cloths dry and fruit machines blank. In Tier 3 territory, where I live, we are a long way off a foaming pint consumed in a cosy nook; it’s takeaways and delivery only until — when? We pub-lovers comfort ourselves that this is all temporary, that George and his Dragon are only lying dormant until spring blooms with millions of vaccine doses. I fear that within the grand Covid crisis a smaller, melancholy one is unfolding: the beginning of the end of the great British pub.

Source: The Times November 29, 2020 23:59 UTC