The fashion for gentlemen’s neck-ties has waxed and waned over the years. We are currently living in an open-collared era; but it was not always thus.
In 1952, Alan Course, landlord of The Bear Inn, decided (we suspect alcohol may have been involved) to begin a unique collection – not just for a bet or for his private amusement, but for public delight and awe. If you venture down Alfred Street one of these autumn days you can marvel at the fruits of his labour.
There you will behold over 4,500 carefully snipped ties, lovingly arranged in vertical stripes, neatly labeled and housed in glass cases. School ties, army ties, college ties, club ties, sports ties, witty ties, silly ties, ties which exude deep seriousness … They are all on public display, and with them a slice – or, perhaps we should say, knot – of mid-twentieth-century British social history.
Are there any cravats or bow ties or kerchiefs among the ranks, we hear you ask? – and I’m afraid the answer may disappoint. But there are more than enough examples of the more conventional necktie to satisfy the most dedicated aficionado.
The Bear is a delight to reach. It sits on quiet cobbled lanes, away from the noise of The High and St Aldates. The present building was constructed in the seventeenth century as the residence for an ostler or stableman, before being converted into a separate tavern in 1774. Its creaking age can be felt in the lowness of its roof and the curvature of its walls. Its name goes back even further, to an adjacent inn set up in 1242. At Christmas its patrons pack themselves sardine-tight into the snug bar or huddle around the open fire. In summer the patio outside provides a venue for further, more raucous merriment.
As to its ancient pedigree, The Bear used to vie with two other fine hostelries – the Mitre Inn at the corner of Turl Street, and the Turf Tavern down St Helen’s Passage off Bath Place.
The Turf, which nestles beneath the medieval city walls and the looming bell-tower of New College, proudly proclaims itself to be the place where, as students, US President Bill Clinton smoked marijuana but ‘didn’t inhale’, and the future Prime Minister of Australia, Bob Hawke, consumed a yard-glass of ale (2.5 pints) in 11 seconds, thereby drinking himself into The Guinness Book of World Records. Alas, neither of these stories is true.
Alas, too, The Mitre, for centuries the oldest continuous drinking house in Oxford, has recently been converted into an Italian restaurant. Its underground cellars, dating back eight centuries, no longer house kegs of sherry and brandy, ale and porter. Only its name and distinctive insignia survive to commemorate the bishop whose vast diocese once included medieval Oxford, and who, in 1475, donated this property to his college – Lincoln.
Perhaps it’s just as well. The Mitre was notorious as a place where the desire for refreshment could sometimes prove overwhelming. The antiquarian Anthony Wood, tells how, in 1690, ‘John Foster MA, Fellow of All Souls College… died at the Mitre late one night after imbibing immoderately.’
History does not record whether he was wearing his college tie at the time.
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We can state with absolute confidence that William Jefferson Clinton did not have inhalatory relations in that pub.
Bill Clinton did not inhale in the Turf Tavern. Everyone in Leckford Road OX2 knows that it was here that he didn’t inhale – in the house where he was once accommodated as a Rhodes scholar.
Imagine everyone’s surprise when he turned up (unannounced) in the street last year and spent nearly an hour hanging out with our neighbours, reminiscing about his happy days as a student here.
The kids didn’t know who he was. Their mom, who is American, was overcome!
Interestingly, Howard ‘Mr Nice’ Marks, who really did know his narcotic substances, also lived at the same address in Leckford Road during his time as a student in Oxford. He rather approved of the ‘Oxford-educated dope-taking draft-dodging philanderer’ although they didn’t overlap. He was, however, perplexed by the President’s subsequent claim, as he had ‘never met anyone who smokes joints without inhaling’. (pp.451-2)
The Turf’s claim to the legend of Bob Hawke also needs to be corrected. Our thanks to Professor Jane Kaye (originally from Alice Springs, now resident in Oxford) for pointing us in the right direction.
In his Memoirs (1994) Bob Hawke states that the scene of his remarkable feat (drinking a yard of ale in 11 seconds) was not the Turf Tavern (as is claimed) but rather his college, Univ, which he was attending as a Rhodes scholar.
Interestingly, Hawke also notes that it is the thing most people remember him for – far more than his many legislative reforms – and that it was significant politically because it endeared him to the Australian electorate, where an ability to drink is universally admired regardless of the protagonist’s political persuasion – JK
It turns out that Andrew Hall, publican for 41 years of the legendary Rose & Crown (pictured here with his saintly wife Debbie and son Adam, now landlord) had a brief spell at The Bear. He recalls:
The Bear in 1970 was an extraordinary place. The ties were displayed on the ceiling as well as on every available wall. Upstairs, there was a complex indexing system identifying every item and its location.
I remember the time a middle-aged American couple came into the bar, the husband wearing a particularly intriguing tie. I explained The Bear tradition to him and requested a customary snip with a pair of its distinctive pinking shears.
His wife was somewhat reluctant, but eventually he succumbed. I then informed him that he would be required, according to tradition, to down half a pint of beer in a single gulp. Once again his wife was protective, especially given his heart condition, but he was game (little knowing that the ‘half-pint glass’ had a false bottom, so that people participating in this ritual were not unduly discomfited.)
I’m afraid I don’t remember which particular tie it was/is; I moved on shortly afterwards. But I do, as it happens, like to wear a tie behind the bar, even to this day. I’m not sure why, and no one has so far approached me with scissors …
The intrepid Stuart Panter takes us on a tour of the underground cellars of The Mitre:
The Revd Richard Smail writes:
The meticulous labels recording what each tie represents, the name of the donor, and date of the donation are now almost impossible to read. I’ve always thought it would make a good subject for a DPhil. They can now read papyri with ultra violet technology, so you never know.
The Snug entered from the Oriel end is known by many devotees as ‘The Office’. It once housed a telephone.
Just as inns offered customers food, drink and a bed for the night, so they also had to provide stables, water and hay for the horses. Mark Davies, historian of Jericho, points out the following connection.
The Furse family had owned all the meadows which comprise modern Jericho since 1571. Thomas Furse, formerly a ‘singing-man’ of Christ Church, ran the Furres (otherwise known as the Bear) Inn, which at the time fronted the High Street. By 1801 it had stabling for some thirty horses. Hence, if you look on old maps of the fields of Western Jericho, running alongside the river (and, later, the canal) are the Great Bear and Little Bear Meadows, harvested in order to ensure the supply of essential fodder for all those hungry horses accommodated at their inn.
In its (literal) hay-day as a coaching inn, the Mitre boasted stabling for more than forty horses. Much more recently, as student accommodation for Lincoln College, it has received a substantial make-over, costing some £16m.
We are grateful to an anonymous Morse aficionado for this nugget:
The Bear Inn features in Colin Dexter’s novel Death Is Now My Neighbour, the twelfth in the series, in which Inspector Morse seeks the aid of the pub’s landlords, Steve and Sonia Lowbridge (who happen to be tie experts) in identifying a tie from a photograph.
Ian Charlton writes:
My late colleague at the Ashmolean Museum, Dr Roger Moorey, recalled that as an undergraduate he was invited to an informal dinner at The Mitre by his Tutor, Dr Max Mallowan, whose wife, Agatha Christie, was also among the party. When it came to paying the bill Dr Mallowan found he had left his wallet at home so the author offered to sign the table cloth in place of a cheque, with the amount included. The manager was delighted by this turn of events. He never cashed the cheque / tablecloth but instead retained it, and for many years the cloth was proudly displayed in a glass case on the restaurant wall.
This from the archives of the Oxford Mail: Elizabeth Taylor at the bar of the Bear, tieless – but begloved.
