In my new series for the Globe, I’m visiting some of the oldest inns, guest houses and watering holes in Wirral. Sitting down with landlords to hear tales of past and present, I'll try to sort the truth from the folk myths and ghost stories.
On the way, I'll be picking out items nailed to the walls or hanging from beams which reveal the true spirit of these pubs - seeking out the photos, memorabilia and bric-a-brac which bring these histories to life.
My first victim is supposedly the oldest pub in Wirral, The Wheatsheaf Inn. Known to locals as the Thatch because of its thatched roof, this 17th century gem is nestled right in Wirral’s belly button, amid a knot of winding country roads and farmsteads.
Rebuilt after a fire in 1611, the Grade II-listed site has served the surrounding hamlet of Raby (population 100) for more than 400 years. Modern visitors are often treated to glimpses of a very English past, from Morris dancers cavorting in the street every summer to huntsman stopping in for a pint before the pheasant shoot.
A curious detail about the Thatch: the sign outside features a photograph of the pub, and in that photo the pub also has a sign, and on that sign is a further picture of the pub, and so on, creating a Droste effect which could very well take you back centuries.
As I arrive, the place is gearing up for the lunchtime open. I’m met at the creaky front door by landlord Phil Davies, who started working here in 1996. Phil, now 49, had spent three years at Tranmere Rovers (he calls himself a “failed footballer”) but when it didn’t work out, his friend fixed him a job at his father-in-law’s new pub.
“He was a farmer - he owned the farm at the back,” says Phil. “But then he became allergic to cows.”
Bizarrely, after a lifetime of exposure to barnyard animals, the farmer had suddenly developed an allergy to cow hair and was forced to “pack it in”. But he decided to keep the barn and buy the pub next door.
The barn is now the Cowshed restaurant and has thrived as an extension to the original pub. In fact, Phil thinks the Cowshed has “saved” the business: countless countryside inns did not survive the societal shift towards “pub-grub” and were either eaten up by chains or closed completely.
Fire and fury
Folk history of this pub often begins with it burning down. “There’s a bit of wood in the snug which still has blisters from the 1611 fire,” Phil says.
We walk through to take a look and while Phil lights the fire, I check out the wooden booth. Sure enough, there are tiny, raised bumps across the seating backs, lit up by morning light through the casement windows. “I don’t know if it’s true,” he says. “Local legend, if you like.”
It’s funny to think, while you sip your Guinness, sit back and feel the grooves of the seat beneath you - that's the memory of a fire four centuries ago.
“There’s a ghost here, too,” Phil adds. “A girl called Charlotte, who died in the fire.”
Onward past the snug, we go into a second, larger room with a wood burner. The walls are adorned with historical photos of the pub. In one of them, a smiling woman with black hair looms in the window of the turkey loft.
Legend has it the woman in the photo is Charlotte. “But it can’t be, can it?" Phil ponders. "When did photography start?” The answer is around 1826, so if that is Charlotte, it’s her ghost.
“A woman came here once who fancied herself as a bit of a medium,” Phil says. “She claimed she saw two ghosts. One was an angry man in the corner of the bar. The other was a woman who was complaining about being hot, as if she was burning.”
Steve, the pub’s general manager, dips his head in as we’re talking and disputes this: “I remember her saying she saw a girl walk past, and the girl said, ‘I’m okay’ – or something like that.”
But Phil and Steve agree on the identity of the second ghost, the “angry man” propped on the bar in the corner. They think that man was Paul, a regular punter who they served for many years before he died. First to arrive on opening, Paul always sat on that same stool.
“I suppose he's angry because he can’t get a pint anymore,” Steve laughs. “No one will serve him, ‘cos they can’t see him.”
Shotguns and 9 irons
Over the years, the Wheatsheaf has been an asset of several noble families, swapping between illustrious hands like the Earl of Shrewsbury and Lord Leverhulme. A hunting horn, hallmark of the upper class, still hangs over the bar from the days of foxhunting.
Hunting horns allow members of a hunt to communicate with one another, and to call and guide the hounds. Natural animal horns have been used for hunting since the Bronze Age, with brass bugles coming into use in Ancient Rome. Ornate silver horns came into use among the European elite in the late medieval period.
Foxhunting was banned in the UK in 2004, but many anti-hunting groups say it still takes place under the guise of “trail hunting” – where dogs follow an artificial scent along a set route, with people on foot or horseback behind them.
The idea is to replicate a traditional hunt without an animal being chased, injured or killed. But the National Trust banned trail hunting in 2021, following a members' vote on the “contentious” issue.
Phil has seen the clash of old and new worlds play out in real time. “The Wirral Shoot used to have breakfast, lunch and dinner here,” he says.
“They used to bring their guns in with them, until we got a complaint and the police came. I can see why. You’re sitting there having your dinner and a load of fellas come in with shotguns.
"But the beaters still come for drinks every week, about 20 of them. All ages, kids to adults.”
He recalls an incident which happened when his wife’s father, “a bit of a hard case”, heard a shooting party outside his hotel down the road.
“They were shooting in the early hours of the morning, waking everyone up. He was a golfer, so he walked down and gave them an earful,” says Phil.
“Anyway, about an hour later, the police turned up at his door saying they’d had reports he’d been threatening people. He said, ‘threatening people? They’ve all got shotguns and I’ve got a 9 iron!’”
Down the Thatch
It’s hard to comprehend the number of lives The Wheatsheaf Inn has touched in 415 years, least of all Phil himself.
The landlord met his wife here on New Year’s Day, the first year he took over, and they have two children who have grown up around the pub. Despite taking it on almost by accident, it has come to define his life.
The Thatch has survived fires, remained fiercely authentic through huge social and cultural shifts, and even came through the COVID pandemic relatively unscathed. I wonder if there's anything it couldn't survive.
Whatever the future holds, the fact this pub has managed to age so gracefully, with so little compromise, is a credit both to Phil and to the Raby community.
The fire is roaring by the time I leave, ready to welcome punters for lunch. As I say my goodbyes to Phil and head out, ducking under the low oak beams, I wonder if Charlotte is watching me go from the barn window, or if Paul is there at the bar, hopelessly demanding his first pint.
This is the first in my Great Wirral Pubs series. Subscribe to the Wirral Globe and stick around for more.
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