The Castle Inn At Lulworth

A Memory of Lulworth Camp.

I worked as the kitchen porter at The Castle Inn, Lulworth in 1966. I was nineteen years old and thought it would be good to spend the summer by the coast. As I thought of myself as a bit of an artist I would have the Dorset countryside to inspire me. I wasn't a very good artist, but I looked the part with full beard, corduroy jacket and a guitar that I couldn't play. This was pre-hippie and post-beatnik days, so I probably just looked odd. All other youngsters were Mods or Rockers.

I must say in 1966 the pub looked very similar to the 1903 picture, little white fence and all. Like all pubs in those days they had a public and saloon bar with a small off-license in between, to keep the toffs and the yobs apart. In the public bar you got campers from Durdle Door caravan site and squaddies from the Army Camp from the other direction. In the saloon bar were holiday makers with just a little more money and on their best behavior. Off from this bar was the restaurant, nice food with definite delusions of grandeur. The specialty of the house was locally caught lobster thermador,m cooked by Mrs Jones the landlady. Mr Jones was usually found in front of the saloon bar. They were what I would call middle class. Posh accents, and kids at boarding school.

The lobsters were caught by Jim Miller, a local fisherman, in the morning and it was my job to put them in the pot in the afternoon. They were fresh and lively, not like the ones you see in supermarkets today, all dozy with rubber bands round their claws. These were frisky, you had to watch your fingers. In the afternoons Jim and his helpers Dennis and Mike would rent rowing boats out in the cove to the day trippers.

The male live-in staff each had a shed in the garden, or chalet as Mrs Jones liked to call them. Fred the waiter was next door to me, he was an old chap who went home to Bournemouth for his two days off. The other side was empty until the new waiter started. John Redman was not your typical waiter. I think he was more used to be waited on rather than serving others. Tall, good looking, about forty, he had lived in Kenya and was recently separated from his wife. When he told me he used to take tourists out on safari as a white hunter and fought the Mau Mau, I believed him. One night we went into Bournemouth and ended up in the Royal Bath Hotel bar. I'm ashamed to say I got so drunk he had to drive us both back. On another drinking night I shaved my beard off, just to see what I looked like. I looked much younger.

There was the manager named Charles who played the violin, Peggy the barmaid who ran the public and had a smile for everyone, and Sue, a nice young girl who helped in the kitchen. At the end of the summer I moved on, my beard had grown back so I could play the roving vagabond a bit longer.

I now live in Florida. On my last visit to England I called into the Castle Inn for a look round and a drink. The beer garden and white fence had gone. The off-license and public bar were now one, with the bar turned sideways to the door. The place was smarter more comfortable, but somehow sterile. In 1966 it had not changed in decades and was rough, rowdy, vibrant and alive, or is it me that's changed? As the pretty, pleasant Polish barmaid served me, I thought 'What happened to the people from back then.?'. I know Peggy moved to Wales to live near her daughter, Dennis went to Australia. I'm told Mr Jones shot himself and Mrs Jones took a boat out to sea and didn't come back. I hope this is not so.