David Williams opened Foresters Arms in 1852 to allow his lumberjacks the opportunity to refresh themselves with a few beers from the local breweries after their daily efforts at deforestation on the slopes of Table Mountain.
Forries is a wonderful Newlands pub of the old school situated on the mountain side of Newlands Avenue and set back from the road in a traditional white building with a mock Tudor exterior. It is a place you are drawn to on a rainy day. Which is fortunate for the publican since Newlands has some of the highest rainfall in the county. Inside is dominated by a long wooden bar counter that is manned enthusiastically by the optimal number of barmen to keep pints refreshed.
Wood is a strong theme. In fact, when you strip it all down, inside is all wooden tables and chairs, fireplaces and some aluminium vats in the background, filled with beer — all you need on a rainy day in Newlands. While it is tastefully comfortable, Forries doesn’t give the impression that it is out to impress. I haven’t noticed any flash. Neither are its punters the sort who go in for enhancements of any kind — they are comfortable in their own skins even if they are a bit wrinkly. Evolution is allowed to play out in the natural way here. One doesn’t find groups of hipsters around here, festooned in tattoos and sipping craft beer while rolling cigarettes and stewing over the relative fortune of their inherited genetic advantage.
I recall old-fashioned saws and perhaps some voorlaiers hung on the walls. TVs in the corners show the sport in season, though they don’t dominate the room. They know their place, which is in the background, as occasional reference points for the score or a replay. The sound is turned off, unless the sporting event demands that the televisions take on a more central role. Music is not piped through speakers to create a vibe. That is not required. Conversation is the main game here and there is generally a healthy buzz of it providing a melody of its own. Neither is this the sort of place that encourages solo drinking or gloomy types, drinking to forget. The mood is primarily convivial and lighthearted.
The appeal of Forries in the rain and the cold doesn’t mean it isn’t equally pleasant when the sun is shining. Most people sit outside when the weather is good. There is a large, covered area and then a garden in the back with a playground for parents with young kids or for those who have brought dogs after a stroll in the forest. These areas work well. The staff know their onions and are efficient conveyor belts for orders of drinks and food. And while it doesn’t fall into the gastropub genre, the food here is consistently good. Hearty pies, burgers and steaks hit the spot. On Sunday a carvery with all the trimmings is served, which is enjoyed by families, with grannies, who totter in on sticks (and leave later doing the Charleston) and toddlers in prams. This is a pub for all seasons.
The draft beer tastes fresh. As it should. Some of it is brewed down the road with the water from the Newlands spring. Until recently, Castle Tank lager was symbolically delivered once a month on a horse and cart. Unfortunately, this tradition has faded into the mists of time.
I like pubs. I lived in England for a decade, and pubs were almost the best part of that time. The average London dwelling is too small for entertaining and so most people socialise in the pub. It is vital from a social orienteering perspective to isolate one’s local early on, and then visit it regularly. British pubs have improved considerably over the years since smoking was banned. When second-hand cigarette smoke ceased to be the dominant aroma in pubs, publicans realised how awful the baseline reek was — an unpleasant combination of stale beer and old farts. This catalysed a mass overhaul. Miles of threadbare maroon carpets were ripped up, and floorboards and dark wooden furniture were sanded in a mass lightening. Curtains were opened and industrial levels of cleaning took place while beer gardens were created to provide space for the smokers to asphyxiate themselves in the rain.
Our family ritually went to our village pub on Saturday evenings after our parents had played sport. My mum wasn’t allowed into the bar, which was reserved for men. Women sipped sundowners on the veranda while men swore and drank in the bar. Children ran around outside, high on sugary drinks. We received occasional clues of what was going on in the bar when the door opened to let someone in or out, and the slurred expletives and smoke escaped for a few seconds before the spring pulled the door closed again. My grandfather rode his horse into that pub while my father walked up the steps on his hands. My feats were less impressive.
People rode their horses to Forries in the early days or were driven in horse-drawn carts. Then they drove themselves in cars before we discovered the perils of driving home. Now we come in Ubers or exercise restraint.
It is incredible to consider that locals discussed the shock at Isandlwana here in 1879, along with the trials of the cunning Boers at Spionkop in 1899, and then toasted the Union in 1910. I trust that the Nationalist victory in 1948 and the subsequent abolition of the qualified franchise was mourned here, along with the shameful half century that followed. Did brown-suited ministers of that regime lament swart gevaar over brandies at the bar while security policemen in grey shoes and dodgy sunglasses spied on the drunken communists from UCT?
The miracle of 1994 was celebrated here by those relieved they had not taken the immigration option. And subsequent generations of South Africans have soothed their nerves here after each political iteration of staring into the abyss before miraculously saving ourselves at the 11th hour.
Sporting triumphs at Newlands rugby and cricket grounds down the road have been celebrated. Along with Springbok World Cup glory, Bafana ignominy and Protea agony.
Generations of students have celebrated the end of exams from school or university here. Forries provides many with a stable reference point, “the same as it ever was”, to benchmark their lives when they return here, in an example of life copying art, a bit like the lyrics of the song Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads.
If you appreciate authentic quality, in the company of like-minded patrons, there is nowhere better — particularly in the rain.
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