Stripes of the Road

Tales from Travellers Who’ve Passed Through

Over the years, The New Inn 1730 has welcomed all sorts — smiths and shepherds, wanderers and workers, dreamers and drifters. Some stayed a night. Others left a mark.

Stripes of the Road is a tribute to those who passed through, drawn from imagined journals, folklore, and the kind of stories once shared by the fire. Each tale captures a moment in time — a memory, a kindness, a lesson, a turning point — offered in the spirit of warmth, character, and hospitality.

These are the stories behind the scuffed boots by the hearth and the names pencilled faintly into the old guestbook.
Some true. Some embellished. All rooted in the road.

The Innkeeper’s Quill – 1730's

The ink was barely dry on the license.

It came by coach from Appleby, signed and sealed by the quarter sessions — a public house “fit to serve the needs of travellers and the passing folk of Westmorland.” That evening, the fire was banked high, the candles trimmed, and three barrels tapped — two of ale, one of rough cider that near took your teeth off.

I’d walked from Orton that day, with a cartload of nails and hinges for the blacksmith down the lane. The news was already spreading: “They’ve opened it proper — it’s a pub now, not just a resting house.” The mood that night was heady, warm, and proud.

There were six of us in by dusk, twelve by nightfall. A drover played fiddle by the settle. A widow from Dufton brought bread she’d baked fresh that morning. The innkeeper — a Mr. Robt. Fenwick — wore an apron over his waistcoat and poured each pint like he was christening something sacred.

No coin passed hands that first hour. Not one. Just stories, songs, and the feeling that this place was going to last.

I wrote my name in the ledger by the fire. With the innkeeper’s own quill.

Still reckon that night was the finest pint I ever had. And not because of the beer.

— Thomas Lightfoot, Cartwright