The Lord Hill, Uxbridge, Middlesex
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MANY, many years ago (pub stories, like ﬁshing tales, often start
that way, but with more reason) two men in the grand old market-
town of Uxbridge had the same idea almost simultaneously to
build a pub. To complicate matters still further, both men chose
almost the same site. The result was that the two taverns were
next-door neighbours, which is one way of going on a minor pub
crawl without excessive expenditure of boot leather.
The taverns rejoiced under the names of Live and Let Live and
The Lord Hill. It is not known whether Live and Let Live was an
injunction or a promise to its more lordly neighbour. But the sad
fact remains that it did not prosper; and to inject new life into it,
the shrewd proprietor of The Lord Hill bought it rather than see
it die on his own doorstep.
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And so, united they stand . . . as The Lord Hill, yet fully
prepared to live and let live in this happy marriage of two taverns
in the town.
The old town of Uxbridge stands astride the main road between
London and Oxford, at the extreme boundary of Middlesex; the
Waters of the Colne separate the county from Buckinghamshire.
The town’s origin is said to date from the time of King Alfred.
In the twelfth century it was known as Oxebridge. ‘
The chief historic event connected with Uxbridge occurred in
164.4 before war broke out between King Charles and his Parlia-
ment. It was here that the Commissioners appointed by the King
met those of the Parliamentarians in the hope of settling their
They ought, one thinks, to have resolved their dispute, the more
so since they had the good sense to meet round the table in an
Uxbridge inn””a much-loved and cherished inn now known as
the Old Treaty House. It says much for the quality of Uxbridge ales
that the conference lasted three weeks. But their differences were,
in the end, irreconcilable, and both sides departed to prepare for
the struggle which “was to have such fateful results.
Good Grain – The Bulldog
Even then Uxbridge was (and continues to be) a thriving market town
and an important centre for the marketing of corn,which leads us to our heroine.
Good beer can only come from good grain; and The Lord Hill
has both in good measure.
The landlord’s wife happens to be one of the leading exhibitors
of bulldogs in the country. When one owns one of the best bulldog
bitches in the country, and in a corn-market town to boot, what
else can a patriotic townswoman call her champion than Good
The Lord Hill, as a consequence, is very much alive with ﬁne
specimens of that truly British breed, but Good Grain is the champion
of them all.
As you enter this ﬁne tavem the ﬁrst thing that strikes you,
apart from the ever inspiring sight of our English beverages, is the
imposing array of certiﬁcates and show cards indicating the remark-
able prowess of Good Grain in the show ring.
Good Grain is still a youngster of two and a half, but already
she has won hundreds of prizes; in short, she seems to be unbeatable.
She is, if she but knew, a good friend of the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, for her puppies go all over the world; and the harvest
of Good Grain is bringing good American dollars.
Good Grain leads a busy life, and doesn’t therefore get much
chance to show her teeth in other pubs in the old town. She is too
much in demand in the ring for that.
When I last saw her, Good Grain had travelled ﬁfteen hundred
miles in ten days. Moreover, she had won all the prize tickets there
were to win. Her manners in all her trying (and truly necessary)
journeys were placid and peaceful. But then she is of champion
stock . . . of good grain.
Let us, therefore, raise a full glass to Good Grain.