Pints, pinkie rings, and Philip Larkin: Why Coventry’s pubs deserve your love

I have an acquaintance whose mission is to try as many new beers as possible – no matter the perils or hardships. After exhausting the Leamington pubs and their respective beer options, he was at a loss. Depressed. Lacking purpose. Until like magic – a solution arose. The Coventry pub crawl was born like Venus emerging from her shell. The light in his eyes was back, and the bond between us and Coventry was formed.

By no means have I always had this affection for Coventry. Indeed, the closest I felt to this mysterious land was through the postcode. My hopes for this realm were not high, but since my myriad of pubbing experiences, I have discovered a love for this misunderstood territory.

Only in Coventry can a run-in with a pinkie-ringed ex-con be followed by a £6.50 pint in a neon-lit gay bar – it’s the kind of chaotic refresher that leaves you oddly energised and with a new zest for life

The Flying Standard

The Flying Standard is Coventry’s Spoons, a true jewel. It’s a kind of medieval tavern meets lad bingo hall. Above the bar is a balcony that overlooks the real ale drinkers, where gambling machines shine bright and elderly men smile at you like they know something you don’t. Here, drinks are less about taste and more about price – my friend was left shivering after a single pint – but at £2 a pint, dignity is negotiable. It was uniquely Coventry and the sun was shining as we took in the views of the city.

It was then we met a rather unique individual named ‘Ricky’, who wore a green tweed jacket, skinny jeans, and, most disturbingly of all, a pinkie ring. He carried the conversational ease of someone deeply convicted – in every sense. He also had thoughts. Big ones. Beginning with immigration, he swiftly moved onto the prison system, before rounding off with some words about his right to bear arms. We took this as our cue to flee, as he scurried to the toilet. Coventry lesson one: danger wears tweed and may have a criminal past.

The Yard

Our next stop was The Yard – Coventry’s premier gay bar, which shows another side to the city from the typical pubs: offering booth seating, ambient lighting, and a funky dancefloor, alongside a crowd that mixes glam with mystery. Just as we began sipping our expensive but lovely pints, the wind shifted and who should appear but Ricky himself. He didn’t approach but glared from a nearby table – the ghost of pints past. My friend, now going by the alias ‘Mark’ was determined to get answers. He discovered Ricky’s criminal past was darker than expected – it was time to leave. Only in Coventry can a run-in with a pinkie-ringed ex-con be followed by a £6.50 pint in a neon-lit gay bar – it’s the kind of chaotic refresher that leaves you oddly energised and with a new zest for life.

Even when betrayed by beer, there’s something oddly grounding about an establishment that’s outlived monarchs and plagues. Coventry doesn’t try to charm you – it just exists, proudly, weirdly, and enduringly

The Old Windmill

The Old Windmill is a Grade II Listed, Tudor pub, so old that it predates modern plumbing, leaving you with a distinct desire to speak exclusively in iambic pentameter. However, we were not here to appreciate historical culture – we were here for ‘Goat’s Milk’ beer.

This mythical beverage finally revealed itself, glowing behind the bar like the Holy Grail. We wept, we toasted, we drank. And then some was released onto the historic walls outside. It was Paris syndrome in a pint. Despite its foul taste, the pub’s sheer sense of permanence gave us comfort. Even when betrayed by beer, there’s something oddly grounding about an establishment that’s outlived monarchs and plagues. Coventry doesn’t try to charm you – it just exists, proudly, weirdly, and enduringly.

The Hops d’Amour

The small but mighty Hops d’Amour is a micropub with a strong Guardian-reader energy. The clientele consists of women in dungarees and men who are all presumably employed as environmentally conscious, hipster geography teachers. The appearance is confusing: the inside is like a deluxe British frat house, yet the outside looks like a charity shop. The selection of pints available was mesmerising – good news indeed for my friend who opted for a pint of ‘Lava Lamp’ beer. This was 7% and proved to be a tragically bottom-of-the-barrel pour, exiting as foam that resembled some sort of ocean pollution. The taste matched the appearance. My friend insisted on finishing it and had to exit the pub, holding onto his stomach as he left. That’s the magic of Coventry – it serves chaos with confidence, wrapped in wallpaper and foamy beer – like a misfit friend you weren’t expecting to like so much.

The Philip Larkin

Situated near the central McDonalds, The Philip Larkin, powered by rage and ales, is something of a fever dream and probably what people expect of Coventry. If the poet Philip Larkin ever set foot in this establishment, he’d probably rewrite his entire canon. We sat on a table next to a dog that looked like Cerberus and a chattering of mohawked drinkers. Here, some of us purchased a pint of John Smiths – it just felt right. Coventry isn’t poetic, but it is captivating – maybe it doesn’t rhyme but it does have rhythm.

So no, Coventry isn’t Leamington’s cooler cousin or Warwick’s curated cultural extension – it truly is its own beast – a strange but brilliant one. This is what makes it worth loving. Warwick students shouldn’t dismiss it because it doesn’t come pre-wrapped in aesthetic cafes and fairy lights – it’s raw, unpredictable, and unfiltered in a way that student life at Warwick sometimes needs. So, embrace the weird, drink the Goat’s Milk, and dodge those pinkie rings. Coventry might not always be pretty, but I’ve had my share of unforgettable nights here and that’s far more valuable. I hope this article endeavours shy Leamington-worshippers to establish a connection with the authentic treasure that is the domain of Coventry.