Around the harbourside pubs of Bristol as the Xmas lights go up

A walk around Bristol’s waterside is a good way to take in daylight on short winter days, especially when it leads us to some lesser-visited pubs.

We started our pub-to-pub walk at The Orchard, a small backstreet pub surrounded by boat sheds and industrial units on Spike Island.

It’s one of those pubs that feels faintly magical – an apparition. How has it survived in this unpromising location for so long? And not only survived but also become one of the best and busiest pubs in the city?

We approached it from what visitors to Bristol probably think is the river but is, in fact, a man-made ‘floating harbour’, built in the 19th century to tame the tide. Or, rather, it’s what used to be the Avon before they cut a new channel for it and sent it to cause trouble in the south of the city, through Bedminster.

Turn left before the SS Great Britain, cut up an alleyway between buildings, and there The Orchard is, lording it over Hanover Place.

You can always tell from a distance whether The Orchard is busy. On a gloomy, cold day in December there were people in hats and puffa jackets sitting on the benches outside and, in the windows, a collection of heads.

This is, now that we think about it, what stops us visiting The Orchard more: it’s always busy. That means, first, that we tend to assume we won’t find a seat, or even a corner in which to stand. And, secondly, it doesn’t feel as if it needs our support as some other pubs do.

Pushing through the door, crabbing sideways through the crowd, stepping over dogs and stretched-out legs, we made it near the bar where we joined a non-linear queue. Behind the bar, two people rushed to serve what felt like two hundred customers.

Things would probably move faster if people didn’t make such large and complex orders. In a pub with a list of scrumpy ciders, several cask ales, and a counter covered in bread rolls, pasties and scotch eggs, why would you ask about cocktails?

Yes, yes, we know, offering a wider range of products is how you get people into the pub and make them feel welcome but… in this pub?

Busy as the pub was, we did find a post to lean against, and were then offered a seat by a couple as they departed. From a bench by the wall we watched parties of lads in Christmas jumpers, parties of lads in rugby shirts (home match, 5:30 kick off), families feeding crisps to toddlers, and middle-aged couples (like us) huddled together over their drinks.

Every time a seat near the fire became available, there was a shuffling round as people upgraded from leaning spot to bad table to good table to warm spot.

Our pints of St Austell Proper Job, served direct from the cask, had slight heads of loose foam. They were bursting with freshness and life and, if anything, tasted drier and more bitter than usual.

It was hard to leave but we pulled ourselves away, letting the tide of people wash into the gap we left behind us, and headed back to the waterside, in the direction of the Underfall that marks the beginning of the end of the floating harbour.

We’ve tended to skip The Nova Scotia, despite it being, on paper, the kind of pub we ought to like.

On previous visits, the beer was of historic interest more than it was delicious, being one of those places where you could always get Courage Best despite Courage having closed its Bristol brewery in 1999. The long, compartmented, richly dark space was also fascinating, but tended to feel more cliquey than cosy.

So, we popped in on this wander by way of a check in, expecting to knock back a half and move on. But it felt like a different pub, somehow, both in terms of atmosphere and offer.

Relax, though: it hasn’t been brutally refurbished, painted grey, or turned into a restaurant. Rather, its essential pubness has been brought out with a few small tweaks.

The beer offer seemed to have grown, based on our hazy memories, but more in depth than breadth. Those of you who grumble at the difficult of finding brown bitter these days, the country is going to the dogs, and so on, will be excited to know that The Nova Scotia has as its standard line-up:

• Fuller’s London Pride
• Butcombe Original
• Bass

There’s also a rotating guest ale which, on our visits, was Wye Valley Butty Bach, which is light brown, for a bit of variety.

The service was friendly, the other customers were friendly, and there were filled rolls on the counter – a sure signal that a pub is civilized without being pretentious.

The pub is under new management, of course, and has been since the summer. Specifically, it’s yet another pub that’s come under the care of Sam Gregory. He’s been running The Bank and The Bell for a while; recently took over The Crown; and has expanded out west with The Nova Scotia and the Rose of Denmark.

The Bass was excellent. The Butcombe was excellent. The Christmas tree twinkled and was reflected in the chocolate brown paintwork. There were more lads in Christmas jumpers, more rugby boys… no, actually, the same ones from The Orchard, on the same trail as us.

Again, we found it hard to leave, but The Merchants Arms was beckoning from across the water.

The Merchants still feels like a hidden gem despite being chosen as the best pub in Bristol by local CAMRA, or a close runner up, most years in recent memory.

It’s another tiny beerhouse on a corner, only its corner faces out onto a busy road junction. That’s why, every now and then, a driver will smash into the pub, knocking it out of action for a while. You can buy an official T-shirt commemorating these incidents.

We squeezed through the door and through the crowd to a spot within shouting distance of the bar. As we peered at the pumps we heard a voice shouting “Ray! Ray!” but ignored it because, frankly, The Merchants is the kind of pub where almost everyone is called Ray.

Eventually, though, we recognised the voice. It was Garvan, landlord of our old local, The Drapers Arms, who was on his way to the stadium for the rugby. There’s a certain warm feeling that comes with bumping into people you know in the city, like you’ve cut through the default alienation and found the layer of community beneath.

We didn’t get a seat this time – no chance! – but did bag a corner of the bar when the couple who’d previously been leaning there upgraded to a table near the open fire. We drank beer from Cheddar Ales and watched pork pies with smears of psychedelically yellow English mustard on the side pass by.

When another tiny table became available, nobody wanted to look as if they wanted it, and a chivalrous game of “No, you take it, no, I insist, well, if you insist, if you’re sure…” commenced.

It must be the spirit of Christmas.