AMONGST many other memorable melodies, that sublime crooner, Dean Martin, sang ‘Little Old Wine Drinking Me’. Now it could be that the famous American performer did, indeed, imbibe a fair share of the juice of the grape, but it is for the consumption of whisky and bourbon he is best remembered — apart of course, for that smooth, velvet like tenor voice.

How it affected his health I know not — he lived a quite reasonably long life — but it certainly was part of his persona, even perhaps a trademark, in that he often went on stage carrying a glass containing ample portions of the ‘amber nectar’ (and it wasn’t lager). Between warbling his memorable offerings, he would take a sip or two; which leads to the recounting of a priceless response he once made to a lady in the audience who accused him of being inebriated (a touch unlikely as he was so very professional). Apparently he looked at her, shook his head, smiled, and said in respectful tones‘Ma’am, you’re not drunk as long as you can lie on the floor without holding on.’ Sadly, in this binge drinking age (though, mercifully, it is reported to be on the decline) there are all too many folk —usually young — who spend far too much of their time lying on floors, or roads, greatly the worse for wear, even if they do not have to ‘hold on’.

Still, it has to be said that whilst alcohol — due perhaps to it being relatively cheap, more easily accessible, and people, generally, being better off — is consumed more widely and heavily than during the days of my youth, I would be guilty of, at best, amnesia, at worst, a blatant refusal to confront reality, if I were to suggest that back then the imbibing of liquor was not an important part of so many people’s lives, including my own. Indeed, it ever has been, right back to the dawn of history — did not Jesus turn water into wine for the benefit of guests at a wedding?

Some 50 years back, mind you, there were far fewer places where one could purchase beer and spirits (wine, then, was rarely consumed). There were few supermarkets, whilst ordinary shops usually found it very difficult to get a licence to sell alcohol; pubs provided the vast bulk of drink, and they, then, were constrained by strict regulations regarding opening hours, especially on a Sunday.

Despite this, there was always plenty for the drinking man or woman to consume; draught beers dominated, such as bitter and mild (few lagers) although the likes of brown and light ales, plus stout, often were bottled. Spirits such as whisky, rum and gin wetted many a glass, though vodka was far less common.

The products of vineyards were also rare, unlike the harvest from local apple orchards which was to be found in pubs and a multitude of farms; ’Scrumpy’ was the liquid produced when crushing the apples — technically, it was cider, but probably bore about as much resemblance to present day brews as does clotted cream to skimmed milk. For this was Westcountry ‘moonshine’, a pint of which would assault the senses of anyone not used to it, a quart of which would make them stagger to their beds.

Even back then some hostelries would not stock it, aware that’s its potency could lead, all too often, to aggression in many, even some quite used to it; great numbers of farms though kept barrels of the greenish, brownish fermented juice, many brewing it themselves. Mainly they made it for their own use, but often would give some to their friends and neighbours, or make a few bob in selling it. Though farmers with an orchard, my parents did not make scrumpy, preferring to sell off the apples; there was always a jar or two of it in the house, however, though rarely touched by myself even when a young man; shamefully, I must admit, proud Devonian though I am, to not really liking it. I did enjoy beer, though — brown ale, mainly — and spent far too much of my early years in licensed premises; still, in an era of probably greater individuality — and eccentricity — one did meet folk who linger in the memory for various reasons, including their drinking preferences.

One fellow drank only whisky with a dash of milk, another a mixture of gin and rum; an old farmer, pints of scrumpy with a double scotch added to ‘give it a bit of character’, as he used to put it. For good or ill, they don’t make them like that anymore; some, also, would drive home afterwards in those pre-breathalyser times. Different days, indeed.