19/10/2025
Heaven or Hell: My 19 Years at The Anchor Inn
By Matthew Nicklin
Was buying a pub at just 20 years old a good thing to do? Would it be heaven or hell — great fun or a hard, long lesson? Looking back now, it’s fair to say it was a bit of both.
When I first took on The Anchor Inn in Combwich, Somerset, I was young, full of ideas, and had no clue what was coming. I had to deal with people trying to intimidate me, walking out without paying, staff stealing, and giving away food and drinks. I soon realised that being liked wasn’t enough — I had to stand up for myself. I invested in no tills, card machines, and CCTV to help manage the problems and protect what I was building.
My mum and dad were a huge part of those early years. Mum painted half the pub when we first opened, and Dad covered countless shifts over the years — especially when staff were short or I needed a break. He also did loads of building work around the place. And over the years, I was lucky to have some fantastic staff who gave their all to help keep the doors open.
Taking on the pub so young meant every mistake was a lesson learned the hard way. At one point, things got so tight that I had to rent out my own bedroom to contractors and sleep on a fold-out couch in the bar — for six years — just to keep things afloat. But that idea led to a breakthrough: renting rooms worked so well that I eventually built 14 letting rooms, which finally pushed the business into profit after years of struggle.
There were also moments that made me question everything. Once, I was threatened with a samurai sword — thankfully, only threatened, not attacked — and that really brought home how unpredictable pub life could be.
Then came the credit crunch years, when people just weren’t going out spending money like they used to. To keep things going, I worked at Hinkley Point B for five years — first as a chef, then as a fire watcher, and later as a fitter’s mate for Wire Engineering — just to keep money coming in while we tried to keep the pub afloat.
And of course, there were the national challenges — the smoking ban, the COVID lockdowns, and the energy crisis — each one hitting pubs hard. During the lockdowns, the stress was unreal. When the energy crisis hit, winter power bills were up to £1,000 a week, forcing us to completely rethink how we heated the place and cooked food. We even had to scrap the pizza oven because it cost too much to keep running all day.
Through all this, I had my girlfriend — now my wife — by my side. She moved all the way down from London to help and support me when things were toughest. She covered bar shifts, helped with cleaning, admin, and customers, and stood by me through every late night and early morning. It wasn’t an easy life — and to be fair, she did have a few well-deserved moans now and then, lol — but she still stuck with me through it all. She got stuck in, helped wherever she could, and never walked away. Having her by my side made all the difference.
---
The Good Times
For all the hardship, there were so many good times. We hosted live music, casino nights, race nights, weddings, and village pig roasts.
One of my favourite traditions was helping with the OAP Christmas dinner each year. The OAP Association paid for the ingredients, and I cooked the turkeys for free — usually two giant birds — while they prepared all the sides. Most years, I’d even head down to the village hall to help serve it up to nearly a hundred people. It was a real community effort and something I was proud to be part of.
During snowy winters, when Combwich got cut off, everyone would pile into the pub to keep warm and have a good laugh. Those days reminded me why I loved the job — the people, the atmosphere, the community spirit.
---
My Regulars and Friends
The people made it all worthwhile. The “4 p.m. boys” who came in after work every day for a pint and a chat. The older locals who popped in on Saturday lunchtimes for company. And the Sunday roast regulars who brought warmth and life to every weekend.
They weren’t just customers — they were part of the family. They gave the pub its soul.
And over the years, there were some real Anchor legends — amazing people who left their mark and were sadly taken far too early.
Jane Upham was one of a kind — she made every night lively from the moment she walked in. Always full of laughter, always helping out, and often inviting us back to hers for a meal, a drink, or a BBQ after the pub shut. She was pure sunshine, and we all miss her.
Then there was Murray, who was about the same age as me. He was great fun to be around and one of the kindest people you could meet. One of my biggest regrets is all those times he’d turn up just after I’d finished cooking and say, “You having a pint, Matt?” and I’d reply, “Next time, mate.” Sadly, that next time never came — he was taken from us far too soon.
And Tony Dave — a proper gent and one of the best people to chat to over a pint. He was also the only one to stand up for me the night I was being threatened with a sword. He just stepped forward, calm as anything, and said, “We don’t have any of that behaviour down here — take your sword home.” That’s the kind of man he was.
Then there was Pete — a good friend and a bit of a handful once he’d had a couple, but always the first to show up when there was a leak, a flood, or some work to be done on the pub. I still remember the week he was painting the place. He handed me his bill for the work, and I handed him mine for all the beer he’d drunk that week — and after it all, he still owed me £10!
There are many more legends who made the Anchor what it was, and I’ll never forget them.
Over the years, I’ve also made so many lifelong friends through the pub — too many to name, or I’d never finish writing this story. But every single one of them has made the last nineteen years what they were. They’ve all touched my heart, and I’ve been lucky enough to lean on them when I needed support the most. Without those friendships, I don’t think I would have made it through some of the hardest times.
And I can’t forget my friends from before the pub — the ones who’ve been there since the beginning. So many of them have come down over the years to help with events, band nights, or just drop in and surprise me when I needed a lift. Their visits always reminded me where I came from and gave me the strength to keep going. I truly hope now that life’s calmed down, I can spend more time with them, catch up properly, and finally repay some of the kindness and support they’ve shown me through all those years.
---
Battles and Politics
Running a pub in a small village isn’t all beer and laughter. Over the years, I had letters from the parish council about noise from village events, and they even put up bollards that stopped people parking near the pub. Later, they made the track by the pub a no-parking zone, making it even harder for customers to visit.
Then came the revamped village club. It had low overheads and only opened at peak times, which meant people would often come to the pub early in the evening, but as soon as the club opened, most would head down the road, leaving the pub to go quiet.
On top of that, I had to deal with rumours — people saying the pub was badly run, that I didn’t care, and even that we served bad beer. That hurt more than anything, because there wasn’t a single day in nineteen years that I stopped caring. Every decision, every long night, every bit of stress — it all came from wanting to keep The Anchor Inn alive and part of the village.
Another battle I faced was a personal one — my struggle with reading and writing. Being dyslexic made running the business even harder, especially in the early years. I lost count of the number of times I made spelling mistakes on menus — things like “pork r***d in bacon” or “bear batted fish and chip.” It gave people a laugh, and sometimes me too, but underneath it was a constant challenge. Still, I never let it stop me. I learned to laugh at myself, take the jokes on the chin, and keep moving forward.
---
The Final Chapter
Despite all that, I kept serving customers right until the end — with the help of so many great staff members who’d come and gone over the years, from wash-up to Sunday roast carving. On the final day, it was Fae who poured the last pint under my ownership, and it felt like the end of an era.
The sale finally went through in 2025, after taking more than a year from offer to completion — one of the most stressful times of my life. But I stayed behind that bar and kept the doors open right up until the very last day.
When it was done, I felt something strange — a feeling I hadn’t known in decades. Relief.
For the first time in twenty years, I wasn’t worrying about staff, stock, or the next bill. I wasn’t waiting for the next kick in the teeth from the economy or the government.
I’ve got this weird feeling now — I think it’s being relaxed, de-stressed, and genuinely happy for the first time in 20 years. I feel like I’m no longer standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the next gust of wind to blow me off. Now, there are no cliffs — just flat land ahead, open for me to explore and conquer.
---
A Final Thank You
I owe everything to my mum and dad, who invested over £100,000 to help me buy the pub when I was just 20. They helped me get the mortgage and kept funding the losses for seven years until we finally made our first profit — at great sacrifice to themselves and the whole family.
I respect my dad more than anyone — one of the most selfless people I know. Always helping others if he can — not just me, but all his six kids — whether it’s building work, paperwork, babysitting, or money when times were tough. I can’t thank him enough.
Thank you to everyone who’s been part of this journey — my family, friends, customers, and staff. You’ve all shaped my life in ways I’ll never forget.
In the end, The Anchor Inn gave me more than I ever expected — laughter, heartbreak, lessons, and love.
It wasn’t heaven or hell — it was real life.
And I wouldn’t trade a minute of it.
