My father attended the same elementary school in Pentwyn as Roy Jenkins, the prominent Labour Party politician. These two led parallel lives. Both spent some time in 'Oxford'. Roy's 'Oxford' included the university's Bodleian Library, my father's 'Oxford' included the Cowley car factory on the other side of town.
The old man's father made the timber supports which prevented the roofs of the coal mine he worked in from caving in. If his workmanship had not been up to scratch Roy Jenkins' father might have come to grief and the future Home Secretary would never have been born. Miners would lift up their hands from deep inside the bowels of theearth and imagine they could touch flowers on the hillside above.
When he was young Roy Jenkins' father went off to Paris in search of a life of freedom. But his money ran out and he was compelled to return to work dow the mines. He became a union official (and was briefly jailed during the 1926 General Strike), was elected to Parliament. His family was able to employ a maid, and Roy Jenkins junior was sent to school wearing a silk suit. (A big mistake as he had mud thrown at him by the other boys.)
On Sundays the Jenkins family would drive out to a quiet market town for lunch in a smart hotel. Roy began to acquire a liking for claret and a taste for the more sensual side of bourgeois life.
For the old man (but never for Roy Jenkins) public houses were part of the weft and warp of daily life. Pubs functioned as seminar rooms, job centres, accommodation bureaus, and porticos into the abbyss. .
In 1950s Bath I would be sat down on the stairs of a Twiverton inn and wait to have supplies of ginger beer, Cheddar Cheese Straws - and even a pickled egg! - ferried up to my regal throne.

"The ae house is the key to every town" - Walter Benjamin.