Picture this: it’s the mid-1800s. A bunch of local riflemen get together to form a volunteer corps. They need a meeting spot. So, they pick an inn. But because the 19th century loved paperwork, they put the full organizational chart on the sign. It’s like if your friend’s garage band was called “The Brooklyn Third-Floor Left-Side Apartment Acoustic Trio.”
The “Old Thirteenth” part? That’s the regiment number. The “Cheshire Astley” is the county and village. And the “Volunteer Rifleman Corps” explains what they did. So when you walk in, you’re not just ordering a beer; you’re acknowledging a military history lesson. And the best part? Locals just call it the “Thirteenth.” Because nobody has time to recite the full title after two pints.
What It Feels Like Inside
Walking into this place is like stumbling into a time capsule that smelled of wood polish and spilled ale. The floor creaks in a friendly way, like an old dog shifting in its sleep. The ceiling beams are low enough to make you duck, even if you’re average height—it’s a pub that respects your posture by forcing you to bend.
You’ll find a fireplace that’s lit even in summer, just because it looks lonely if it’s not glowing. The bar is a slab of dark wood, scarred with initials and rings from countless glasses. It’s the kind of bar where the landlord knows your name by the second visit, and if you don’t have a name, he’ll make one up. “Alright, ‘Big Coat’—same again?”
The Old Thirteenth Cheshire Astley Volunteer Rifleman Corps Inn
