The Cornubia - Bristol Pub Review
Posted on: 2018-02-06
Our rating:
A glowing beacon plonked proudly amidst the grey, drab eyesores of utilitarian office blocks and the unsightly derriere of the central fire station, put in the effort, seek The Cornubia out and have a pint or three.
Amidst all the chaos, unpredictability and general lunacy of the modern world, there are some places which act as that much-needed oasis, that essential recharge-your-batteries hub, that indispensable nucleus in which to calm down, chill out and whet your rather parched whistle. The Cornubia on Temple Street is one of those places.
I've been quaffing in this splendid little - and by little, I MEAN little - boozer for as long as I can remember. It hasn't changed much, if at all, the walls still adorned with more beer mats and pump clips than you could shake a ridiculously large stick at. It's all the better for it too, having managed to escape the clutches of evil corporate identi-kit homogenisation or being knocked down to make way for flats inhabited by the increasing influx of dreadful, gentrified douches.
Apparently, 200 years ago around 18 inns and taverns inhabited Temple Street alone, but now The Cornubia is literally the last man standing, tucked away in a secluded, blink-and-you'll-miss it spot (actually one of the pub's quirkily alluring, delightful charms). It dates back to 1775 and in a previous life was a wig shop. Impressively, it's also the only building in the area to have survived the destructive horrors of the Blitz.
Members of CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) - and I am one - love it here. Easy to see why too, with the usual pub-entering opening gambit presenting the discerning beer and cider drinker with at least 10 hand pulls over which to deliberate. Beer drinking presents you with a particularly perplexing quandary, so it's only right and natural to ask to sample a few of them, as I usually do. By the time you've dampened the palate with at least three small teasers - well, you've got to be sure and the bar staff don't mind spoiling the hardcore ale quaffer - you'll know the one you want.
Beers change and rotate on such a regular basis that naming them would be a futile gesture as, by the time you next go in, they'd have changed anyway. Needless to say, I've never necked a bad beer, so faultless and impeccable is the quality and pulling of the beverages. Terrapins swimming clumsily in a tank at the end of the pub will watch you with pining, envious eyes.
The decor suggests it's a patriotic place too, the pub resplendent in a multitude of Union Jacks, a photo of Her Maj above the bar as well as a glitter ball and two plastic models of the all-powerful enthroned one. It's a potentially divisive move. A few weeks back and several ales into the evening, the barmaid and I jabbered on about how such furbishment could - and as she pointed out, has - split customer opinion.
You know the drill: Union Jacks equal patriotism equals bigotry equals racism equals driving a wedge between that mythical, fantasy ideology of a truly multi-cultural, inclusive society. Yawn. Nope, the barmaid stoically and vehemently defended the pub's corner; it's just decor representing a national heritage and pride, and if you don't like it you know where the door is. Good on her.
Being a proper pub where the true emphasis is on drinking - nope, not a single poncy gastro menu in sight - tucker is relegated to the absolute bare, snack-chomping minimum here. Crisps, nuts, rolls, pork pies. If you really want to push the boat out on more extravagant cuisine you could always opt for one of their warmed-up pasties from the mini-oven on the bar. There are pickles too if you're in the mood to go crazy with some condiments. Excellent, delicious, stodgy soak-up-the-beer fare.
A glowing beacon plonked proudly amidst the grey, drab eyesores of utilitarian office blocks and the unsightly derriere of the central fire station, put in the effort, seek The Cornubia out and have a pint or three. A cosy, welcoming beer-supping paradise; the world's hysteria seemingly a million miles away. You'll thank me for it.
The Cornubia is located at 142 Temple Street, Bristol, BS1 6EN
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Article by:
Jamie is a writer, blogger, journalist, critic, film fan, soundtrack nerd and all-round Bristolian good egg. He loves the music of Philip Glass, the art of Salvador Dali, the writings of Charles Bukowksi and Hunter S Thompson, the irreverence of Harry Hill, and the timeless, straw-chomping exuberance of The Wurzels. You can sometimes find him railing against a surging tide of passing cyclists, or gorging himself senseless on the Oriental delights of a Cosmos all-you-can-eat buffet.
