The Drunk Tank

   A long time ago, I knew a guy who spent a night in the drunk tank in Montreal. He had incurred the wrath of a pair of Quebecois cops (not the most patient of people, at least at the time), by boozily informing them that the city was a dump and he couldn't wait to leave. They chucked him in a cell for a night and strapped him to a chair. 'I'm not Hannibal!', he told them, as they put some kind of gag over his mouth to shut him up. 

   I thought of him today during a tour of the Town Hall in Berwick-upon-Tweed. A couple of hundred years ago, the whole second floor of this handsome sandstone edifice served as a gaol, and behind one black door lies the drunk tank. It consists of a wide wooden 'bed', large enough for about four hellraisers, with a very uncomfortable looking rectangle for their heads. It has an incline, which was apparently a precaution against them choking on their vomit. Above the bed is a very large window, its size perhaps reflecting a desire to inflict an extra bit of punishment once they began to sober up. 

   This was my seventh or eighth trip to Berwick. Growing up in the south of England, I don't think I ever heard or read anything about it. Had I done so, I suppose I would have lumped it in with the rest of the north: far away, and the sort of place I might be punched in a pub for speaking with a funny accent. 

   I now think it could be the most atmospheric town in the whole of Britain. It's just three miles from the Scottish border, and much of the town is surrounded by a complete defensive wall. Steps lead up to the wall from all over Berwick, and there are ancient lanes and tunnels that pass through the stone. As with other historic settlements, even the street names (Sandgate, Marygate, Hide Hill, Love Lane) have an air of romance about them. The whole place has a faded magnificence, rather like Ronda, in the south of Spain. 

   The Town Hall, which was finished in 1761, lies down a slope at the foot of Marygate, the principal shopping street. It is not the most eye-catching thoroughfare, suffering from neglect and the familiar blight of empty premises. The Town Hall itself is very striking, though. Indeed, it is 'regarded as one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the north of England', according to a sign round the corner. 

   A flight of wide steps leads up to a row of four weather-worn doric columns. There is a sign admonishing would-be loiterers to 'please keep these steps clear at all times'. On the day in question, about a dozen people were, in true, entitled British fashion, ignoring this request. Surmounting all is a clock tower, from which a curfew bell tolls every night. Sadly, I've never been present to hear it; at least, not yet. 

   Half of the aforementioned prison was for debtors. They had to work inside the gaol to repay their debt, either by fashioning coffins or by making nets for salmon fishing. Those engaged in more serious episodes of malfeasance, which apparently included the drunks, occupied the other half. They had a communal area, which must have been an absolute free for all, for the gaoler was only required to visit once a day. Crimes such as robbery might result in exile to Tasmania. As someone who occasionally has to deal with drug addicts attempting to steal alcohol, it seemed like a reasonable punishment to me. 

   One of the walls of the drunk tank bears the scars of eighteenth century graffiti. The level of boredom experienced by the prisoners can be discerned from the banal inscriptions they left for posterity: their initials, names, or the year they were thrown in the slammer. One inmate had made more of an effort, however, etching an image of a man with a hangman's noose around his neck. 

   My friend in Canada also left something at the police station following his night on the tiles: a fake name. 

Tours of the Town Hall in Berwick-upon-Tweed take place at 10.30 a.m. and 2.00 p.m. from Monday to Friday. The price is £2.50. The guide has a fine sense of humour.