The Dover is Over

~ Words by Vickie Sam Paget, Sky Blue Content ~

A small but sweet part of Vancouver’s West End had its soul ripped out last weekend when the Dover Arms closed its doors after 42 years…

Let it be said: The Dover Arms on Denman Street certainly had its rough edges. Its interior design wasn’t pretentiously glossy or minimalist. Its serving staff weren’t cardboard cut-out 36-24-36 robots clad in tight black dresses. No-one could ever accuse it of smelling like a bed of roses in there. It didn’t serve overtly-flamboyant drinks in hipster-esque jam jars and – wait for it – people in there actually engaged in lively conversations with people they didn’t actually know.

Imagine!                                                                                                                                                                                             

A Home from Home
When I arrived in Vancouver from the UK seven years ago, it was the first pub (and yes, it was a pub, not a bar) that I actually felt at home in. And that’s high praise indeed for a British-style pub located in Canada, because most British-style pubs located in Canada are jumped-up restaurants with a token dartboard.

When you entered the hallowed doorway of the Dover Arms, no one judged what you were wearing. No one second-guessed who you were or where you were from or what you were doing there. That’s because the Dover Arms was full of real people made of real flesh and blood drinking real beers out of real pint-pots who were busy having real conversations about their real lives.

The first thing you were offered when you entered the Dover Arms was – wait for it – A DRINK. Not a menu; not the intimate details of the spicy tuna tartare sushi roll that’s on special. You were offered an actual drink – and you knew the name of the server who was offering it.

Hallelujah!

The cast of locals at the Dover Arms read like the lyrics of a bitter-sweet Beatles’ song. The place was simply bursting with characters. Modern-day versions of pirates and troubadours, lovers and clowns.

I’ve changed the names to protect the innocent (and the guilty), but they were all there: a colourful tapestry of humankind in all of its imperfect perfection:

There was James*, a cuddly ex-pat retiree who pops into the pub to talk passionately about the footie results (translation: soccer) with his pals. There  was Patrick*, a 90-year-old with an eye for the ladies who came to the Dover Arms once a week to sit in the same chair, eat poutine and gaze at the girls. There was Simone*, an attractive older lady with a flare of shining silver hair falling down her back, who would dance to Rolling Stones tunes like a demon until she fully transformed into the 19-year-old she was back in 1969. There was Mark* a smiley bloke who could steal your heart away with his sense of humour without warning. There was Hilary*, a server with a heart of pure gold, who made it her business to remember the birthdays of all her favourite customers and make a suitable fuss for them each and every year. And there was Rob*, a lonely divorcee who needed the easy familiarity of the Dover Arms like he needed air to breathe.

And there was me, sitting in wide-eyed wonder watching it all.

Paving Paradise
I know that ‘progress’ marches on, but I do worry about this Eleanor Rigby-like list of characters. The Dover Arms was their touchstone. And a sense of community is something that we should never-ever take for granted.

And I worry about the West End. Change is inevitable, I know, and I’m bracing myself for it. I just hope it’s not at the expense of the area’s wonderful, glorious, ramshackle soul.

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot? They’ll pave over the pub and put up a big glass block…

This feature first appeared on our sister Vancouver blog, marvellousmutterings.com.