The man who ran the neighborhood pub, the Wyndham Arms, had decided to call it quits. Hit by hard times, he locked up one evening and never came back, leaving the village bereft of its "local," the watering hole down the road where, for more than 200 years, the good folk here could always drop in for a pint, a pie, or a piece of gossip.

The tavern seemed destined to become yet another lost marker of traditional village life, bound for the same remorseless oblivion that had swallowed the baker, the butcher, and the petrol station in this lazy green countryside, where bluebells nod in the breeze, medieval church towers loom like giant chess pieces, and thatched roofs peek through the leaves.

This time, though, residents drew a line. They retrieved the keys to the pub, renovated the whitewashed 16th-century building, and reopened it less than two months later.

"People couldn't bear the thought of it being boarded up," said Mavis Durrant, 67, a lifelong resident of the village in southwestern England. "There's something very appealing about a country pub, isn't there?"

For centuries, virtually nothing has been more central to the good cheer and cozy charm of English village life than the local pub, whose name alone - the Bishop's Finger, the Drunken Duck, the Quiet Woman, the Moorend Spout - could summon a smile.

But feel-good stories such as the rescue of the Wyndham Arms are rare these days because pubs are closing across Britain faster than a thirsty man can down a pint. Colorful and often iconic establishments that managed to survive civil wars, frowning Victorian teetotalism, and tales of being haunted are increasingly buckling under to modern market forces, higher taxes, and lifestyle changes.

Every week, 39 alehouses call for "last orders" one final time, according to the British Beer and Pub Association. All told, more than 2,000 taverns have shut down since March of last year, at a cost of 20,000 jobs.

It's an especially distressing turn of events for those in the countryside, who warn that villages may eventually be reduced to little more than rural dormitories, stripped of the shops, services, and gathering places that gave them a sense of identity and cohesion.

"We risk undoing centuries of tradition. An English pub is absolutely part and parcel of English society and community," said Nick Harvey, a member of Parliament for North Devon, a district in western England where 70 to 80 taverns remain, down from more than 100 just a few years ago.

In many neighborhoods, Harvey said, "the shops have gone, the garage has gone, everything has gone. The pub is the only thing left."

Government rules that have allowed big chains to buy up or control thousands of alehouses can make life tough for the tenants who lease the pubs and try to turn a profit. High alcohol duties have steadily pushed up prices at the bar stool, even as supermarkets sell beer at cut-rate prices to draw in customers content to drink at home.

Modern times have also brought new habits and ideas. Because of safety regulations, construction workers and tradesmen no longer have a quick pint during their lunch hour. Britons are now more mobile, meaning they don't have to stick to their hometown bar. And rising prosperity, before the current recession struck, spurred demands for better food, flashier decoration, and more options for families with young children.

Pub managers and traditionalists grumble loudest over the smoking ban instituted in 2007. Business has gone down as a result, they say, though the move also brought in some new customers.

But in spite of all the changes, the neighborhood pub remains at the heart of community life in countless towns and villages.

The loss of such an important social nerve center can be devastating - akin to the death of an old friend, as the quiet village of Bickington learned.

Like Kentisbeare, Bickington sits primly in Devon, in a rustic landscape of sun-dappled fields sliced into puzzle pieces by high hedgerows.

Villagers watched in dismay as their police station, post office, and mechanic's shop gradually went out of business. When the company that owned the local pub, the Toby Jug, decided to close down the tavern several years ago, it was "the final blow" to communal life, said Caroline Meek, whose family has lived in Bickington since 1809.

"At the moment, if we see each other, it just happens to be out and about . . . catching five minutes here or there," Meek said of the village's residents. "Before, that would've happened in the pub over a nice drink."

Bickington's fate is precisely what Mike Scales sought to avert in Kentisbeare when he rallied his neighbors to help save the Wyndham Arms last summer.

Scales knows the battle for survival isn't over. To remain a viable concern, the alehouse has to keep customers coming back, which is why it serves better food, welcomes children and dogs, and, as its latest innovation, offers Wi-Fi.

"People need to talk to each other. They need to communicate. They need to feel as though they belong to a community," Scales said. "If I've done nothing in my miserable life, this is perhaps one good thing."

Elephants, Wigs, and Bishops

Visitors to Britain are often struck not just by the profusion of pubs but by their colorful names, such as the Barley Mow, the Eagle and Child, and the Two Mile Oak.

Historical figures and royalty provided many of the names: the Duke of Wellington and the Queen's Head, for example. Others require little explanation, such as the Horse and Coaches, the Cat Head, and the Boot and Slipper.

But some of the monikers are of intriguing, and unresolved, origin. Take the Elephant and Castle, the name of a tavern (as well as a subway station and general area) in south London.

Some argue that the name is a corruption of "Infanta de Castile," a reference to a Spanish princess. Others trace it to a medieval guild of metalworkers who took as their emblem the drawing of an elephant with what looks like a castle on its back.

In Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, Antonio declares, "In the south suburbs at the Elephant is best to lodge," which some think is a sly reference to the Elephant and Castle in south London. But that is probably an anachronistic reading.

Still, imaginations can run free upon encountering pub signboards advertising the Wig and Miter, the Dumb Post, the Merry Harriers, the Swan With Two Necks, the Flemish Weaver, the Crown and Trumpet, the Staff of Life, the Old Saracen's Head, the Bishop on the Bridge, and the Green Dragon.

- Los Angeles Times