A blackened-steel bar, a hearth in the middle of the room, and eighteen Maine drafts. The kind of tavern a town drives an hour for — locals all week, music on the weekends, and a stool by the fire with your name on it.

Low pendant light, leather stools worn smooth, and bottles glowing amber behind the bar. Order a pint, pull a chair to the hearth, and stay a while. No televisions over the bar, no rush to turn the table — just a good room, a good pour, and a fire.
The taps rotate constantly — here’s a sample of a recent night. Ask the bar what just got tapped.

Weekend nights, a corner of the tavern becomes a stage — Maine songwriters, the occasional bluegrass trio, a slow piano on the quiet ones. No cover, no fuss. Just turn up, find a stool, and let the room fill in around you.
The best seat in the tavern comes with a room upstairs. Book a stay and the fire’s already yours.