The Vulcan is a Cardiff pub that’s been relocated to a museum. Is this a good way to preserve pubs or just another way of destroying them?
The Vulcan reopened for business at St Fagans National Museum of History about a month ago, after several years of “Coming soon!” updates.
We visited on a busy Saturday expecting a sterile exhibit, based on the photos we’ve seen online. The very act of rebuilding and restoration means the building looks too neat and bright, like something from Poundbury.
In its original location it was covered in soot, urban grot, and layer upon layer of paint. It was surrounded by railings, billboards, street furniture and litter. At St Fagans, it’s all fresh bare brick and fresh country air.
We’re not the only ones with concerns. When Martin Taylor wrote about this project a while ago he said:
The Vulcan was to Cardiff what the Laurieston is to Glasgow (or the Charlie Chaplin was to the Elephant & Castle if I’m honest), that “was” telling you that the pub closed a decade ago and is still being rebuilt brick-by-brick at St Fagans, where pashminas from Cowbridge will ask what wines it sells.
On top of all that, the website suggested booking a table if you wanted to see The Vulcan and, as we approached, it looked overcrowded and oversubscribed.
Imagine our surprise, then, when we walked straight in, got two pints, found a seat, and forgot we weren’t in a ‘real’ pub for an hour or so.
Well, no, that’s not quite true. We were always aware that it wasn’t quite a proper pub. But rather than sterility, its location and status seemed to add to the fun.
We’d got the impression that this was going to be something like an ornate Victorian gin palace, perhaps because the exterior is richly decorated with shiny green tiles. But the public bar is actually defined by plain, light-coloured wood, and mostly plain walls decorated with the odd vintage advertisement. There is literally sawdust on the floor, to the delight of every toddler that passed through.
The smoke room at the back feels cosier, with lower light, dark green paint, and dark wood furniture. It’s really not much different from a room in a typical 21st century pub in, say, Sheffield, or Dudley.
It was constantly busy and not only with gawpers. Lots of booze was being bought and drunk and everyone was mildly merry, including us, in a realm where a mild caffeine buzz and a sugar buzz from scones is about as far as it usually goes.
We didn’t see any pashminas but there were plenty of football kits, trackie bottoms, trainers, and tattoos. There were lots of strong local accents, too. Delightfully normal. After all, St Fagans isn’t a particularly snooty museum – entry is free and you can use it like a park, if you like, and hang out all day with a picnic.
From our seat near the door we watched one person after another walk in and beam with delight, say “Wow!”, or both. And it has to be said that dads and granddads in particular seemed to be in their element.
There were four bar staff on duty in vaguely historic costume and we wondered whether they were pub people with a bit of museum training, or the other way round.
They were remarkably cheerful and willing to engage in chat, and the conversation around the crowded bar went something like this:
“How long have you been open, then?”
“Four weeks today.”
“Busy?
“Very.”
“I used to drink in this pub when it was in town. I’ve come out special.”
“Aw, that’s lovely. You’re not the first old faithful we’ve had in today.”
“I see you’ve got an electric till – that’s not very authentic, is it, ha ha!”
“Well, we can’t be expected to tot it up in our heads, can we? But we’ve hidden it under the counter.”
“How long have you been open, then?”
“Four weeks today.”
“Pink nail polish – that’s not very authentic, ha ha!”
“It’s not, is it? What can I get you?”
“Do you do a normal lager?”
“We do. Pint?”
“My granny used to drink in The Vulcan years ago.”
“Aw, that’s lovely.”
“Health and safety notices – they’re not very authentic, are they, ha ha!”
“We’ve had to make a few compromises, unfortunately.”
“I wanted to show my son where I used to drink when he was little.”
“Aw, that’s lovely.”
“Where did this pub used to be, then?”
“Adam Street.”
“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
“Well, some of the spirits are 43%, but you probably want the pale ale.”
“Is the ale real, or fizz?”
“This is real ale on the pumps.”
“Lager – that’s not very authentic, ha ha!”
“Well, we do hide it under the counter.”
Looking at the barman in the flatcap Ray growled under his breath: “I bet this will attract Peaky Blinders wankers.”
“To a museum? Nah,” said Jess.
Then, a few minutes later we overheard one of the staff said: “You can hire it out for private events. We’ve got a Peaky Blinders theme thing happening soon…”
The other thing that’s great about the new location is the additional context it brings. Right across the road is the Oakdale Workmen’s Institute, built in 1916 and relocated to St Fagan’s in 1995.
It was intended as an antidote to places like The Vulcan, with libraries, reading rooms, and space for edifying concerts.
If you want to understand the evolution of the pub in the early part of the 20th century, you can do worse than hop between the two.
Will the staff at The Vulcan still be cheerful after a long, hectic summer season, we wonder? And will the pub still be as busy once those curious to see an old haunt in a new location have done so? We’ll have to go back in a year or so to find out.
Seeing how much booze this museum exhibit was selling, and how happy it made people, made us wonder whether more pubs could consider the heritage angle.
We know we’re weird – we know – but we’d certainly be interested in drinking in historic pubs that have been made over to feel historic. Rather, that is, than painted bloody grey.
