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In the heart of Deptford, equidistant from the high street and the Thames, a 5-foot-long gherkin hangs high above the Dog and Bell pub, swinging gently in the mild November breeze. This giant gherkin might seem rather phallic if it wasn’t for its striped green skin and glittery nodules, all of which add a sense of whimsy to the incoming attendees of 29th annual Pickle Festival.
At first it is hard to locate any edible pickles through the throng of people, mainly millennials, though there are a few older regulars among the hubbub. The Dog and Bell is a modestly sized pub, down a small street, which has for the occasion added two extra outside bars and portaloos behind the outdoor stage. The small alleyway is now crammed with merrymakers being herded by security. Last year, they anticipated the festival’s rising popularity, expanding into the child’s play area beyond the pub. But Seamus, who's been in charge of the Dog and Bell for the last decade, explains that this year this expansion wasn’t possible, as “the council said the structure was unsafe”.
Despite its ever-growing size (and popularity on social media), Seamus proudly explains that everything about this festival is community led, from the papier-mâché pickle and accompanying felted banner to the local volunteers and ex-staff members who pitch in. Although he’s optimistic about the festival’s “country pub vibes in the city” appeal, the resultant crush does have an effect on the otherwise jolly mood. I wonder how this community feeling can be preserved when the majority of time is spent queueing for a pint, a piss or a pickle — can a village fete be replicated in the city without the fields to stretch out into?
Space to stand and sip your beer is not the only thing in hot demand. Even more sought after are the frickles on offer. For those unaware, these are fried pickles, large gherkins that have been cut into spirals, battered and fried to resemble turkey twizzlers. The queue for this battered gold is hard to find, indistinguishable from the crowd, which causes mild panic: around me, I hear mutters that there will be no pickles left by the time they reach the front (these fears are, fortunately, unfounded).
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