As I sit in The Free Trade Inn, Newcastle, glancing enviously at the couple on the stools a few feet away from me, I wonder what is in the making of the best pub seats. Here the answer is obvious, the view of the Tyne in all its majesty, best observed from the high seating opposite the bar.  After a short while the couple I have been glaring at vacate their place, which I usurp greedily, I wonder if they are aware of the bounty that they have bestowed upon me. Through the close, wide ranging window the traveller is made to feel like a king atop a mountain, gazing down over rich foreign lands, ripe for the plunder. A land that is resplendent with the culture and the kindness of its people lies prostrate before me, begging to be explored, but as I raise my glass of nutty reddish-brown liquid, I am content with the small distillation that passes my lips. The city can wait, I already have the best seat in the house.

Like many usurpers, the throne I have inherited is an uncomfortable one. Unlike my previous seat near the fire, the rickety stool is severely lacking in back support, but not for warmth as the decades old metal radiator presses into my ungrateful knees, who join my lower back in a dull chorus telling me that I’ll pay for my romanticism later. I do not care to hear them, my physical form has faded into the background of my consciousness, save for my eyes to tell me of the ripples of the Tyne and my tongue to savour the nectar in my glass.

As I embark on another half, the foam that settles on my lips echoes that crashing against the banks of the Tyne and for the briefest of moments I think that the whole river should taste so sweet. The weather is at war with itself today, the sun is battling against the clouds, illuminating the view before me only in the brief, glorious moments of its victory. The wind is a hellish maelstrom which has brought the British Transport System to a complete halt. But my train cancellation comes to me not as a foe but as a friend; let battle rage outside, I am exactly where I want to be. 

As I glance to my left the seat I previously vacated has been immediately seized by someone who, like myself, was seeking a more favourable locale. I can’t help but wonder if in the eyes of my successor she has now obtained her ideal place. Maybe for her the more comfortable chair and proximity to the fire make the seat I so foolishly relinquished the prime real estate in this pub. My back and knees would certainly agree with her. 

And so I think back to my original question, what makes the best pub seat? The answer is an expected one, comfort, but the key lies in which of its forms you attribute the highest value. Physical comfort is the obvious starting point. Soft, high backed, individual chairs in front of a roaring fire with a pillowy pint of stout jumps to the forefront of the mind. 

There is also the comfort of familiarity, choosing a seat because “that’s where I always sit”; the comfort of an unchanging constant and a sense of place in an otherwise chaotic, ever-shifting world. I think of the table in the far corner of the back room in the Kelham Island Tavern where I play chess with my friend Chris every Monday. We always choose the same table if it’s available, not for any particular reason, and we’ve never spoken about it. But for me, a shift worker, this is the only weekly routine I have and as such it’s value is exceedingly high. 

Undoubtedly there are great swathes of people who don’t really give a second thought to the location or nature of their seat, all other factors are forsaken for the comfort of another. The best pub seat is wherever your mates are sitting, for what good are pubs if not for the people who occupy them? Here also lies the old boy, confidently dragging a stool to the bar to seek the sympathetic ear of the person behind it.

In contrast there is the comfort of solitude, a small nook in the corner that seats one or two, here you can lose yourself in music, a book, a view. There can be just as much comfort to be found in the shutting out of the outside world as in the embracing of it.

As I sit here in the Free Trade Inn I ask myself which of these comforts I am satisfying and I realise the beautiful dichotomy of my position. I’ve been here almost 3 hours and apart from a few words exchanged with people behind the bar I’ve spent the majority of my time scribbling in my notebook in blissful solitude. Yet as I look up at the city through the rain spotted glass, at the river which has forged its path to the sea, and with it the destiny of the city, I feel a deep connection to the city of Newcastle, to its history and to its people. The wind continues to howl, the spray from the Tyne erupts and then dissipates, yet sitting here, right now, I feel only the warmth of the city’s embrace. Or maybe that’s just the radiator digging into my knees.