Among the Emigres (Stoke Arms inn)

It is a strange thing to visit, for the first time ever, the Stoke Arms pub, up at the beginning of Rosebarn Lane and the big roundabout, in the north-east of Exeter, only to mix with one French person and two Portuguese. But that was the situation on Sunday night, at the height of the Christmas season.

The Stoke Arms pub is monolithic; it is a traditional, sort of London-style, enormous, purpose-built pub, which stands several feet above the roundabout that is the busy junction of Prince Charles Road, Rosebarn Lane, Old Tiverton Road, Union Road, Stoke Hill and, finally, Mount Pleasant Road. It is one of the busiest roundabouts in the whole of Exeter, though its servants are all small, very old roads (apart from Prince Charles Road, probably post-War).

I understand that George Gissing, the great writer, was familiar with Rosebarn Lane, once a country lane between hedges – going up to the very top of Pennsylvania and Stoke Hill – though now entirely suburban with large detached houses and prim, well-kept front gardens. The Stoke Arms is, in a way, the pivot between all of these different social milieus: the council, the post-war detached affluent and the traditional, terraced Edwardian affluent, now split into untold numbers of student bedsits. At Exmouth Junction, it also used to have five hundred railway workers on its doorstep but they have long since vanished; the ideal spot for a two hundred apartment complex, I imagine.

Now, the Stoke Arms’ hinterland is the infamous Beacon Lane Estate, just behind, so you wonder what the place might be like. Would it be similar to the Devon Yeoman (another pub I have never visited). Then again, it is near to the studentville of Union Road so there may be a heavy university presence. Who knows?

The Stoke Arms is really two pubs in one, a lounge bar and a saloon bar, both of equal size yet separated by the main door. At this point you must make your choice since there is no other way between the two. It is like a forlorn metaphor for the old British class system, long since disintegrated (?). Upon entering the Saloon Bar – my natural habitat – I immediately came across M and his two friends, the Frenchman Morgan and Carlos, the Portuguese.

There is the most extraordinary music playing on the jukebox, accompanied by Morgan, arms aloft, singing, waving his arms wildly, totally engrossed by the music of his homeland. The rest of the pub is quiet, just enjoying a pint. Probably bemused by the whole spectacle. The paradox is almost freakish – a traditional, surburban, English pub buried away in an unheard of part of Exeter, rocking to the folk strains of Roscoff or Morlaix. What sort of jukebox is that?

‘Ziss eez... zee musique of Brit-annee.’ Morgan is ecstatic.

He also has the real, authentic French accent, almost a parody of Rene Artois, the cafe proprietor in the great tv series 'Allo 'Allo. Or Eric Cantona. I am beginning to prepare myself for excited talk of seagulls, sardines and trawlers. The blue and white rugby shirt completes the cliche.

We play pool, doubles, for a while (on a silly red table).

Actually, the Stoke Arms is a very nice pub; a good range of beers and a nice atmosphere, nice people and... an awesome jukebox. The Music jukebox is one of those modern ones, all linked to the Internet which means... you can literally select any song ever recorded and published anywhere in the entire world. Hence the music of Britanny in Stoke Hill.

On its front, the jukebox proclaims: 2 MILLION SONGS. When you think that, twenty years ago, you had a large jukebox - the size of a piano - yet only 100 songs to choose from, you realise the sheer power of modern technology. The smaller the jukebox becomes, the more powerful it becomes, linked to that greatest jukebox of all, the Internet. The Music jukebox machine is barely the size of a pub condom machine yet, when you think about it, it has a similar influence. Music has always been a great social cement and the more of it the more cementing that will be done! Women have always loved dancing more than men; if only I were John Travolta.

As we leave the Stoke Arms, Morgan claps and waves goodbye to all of the regulars. Some of them even reply 'goodbye'. A muted response to an emphatic gesture. Now for the Timepiece.