Having peaked too early in the Pelt Trader, and being much too early to loiter around South Ken, we took the tube to the end of the line at Richmond.
It’s about time we had a picture of the Tube on here.
The District Line (the green one) takes you from Cannon Street to Richmond in the company of the sort of mythical characters normally only encountered in an episode of BRAPA. That said, I would happily have walked, but Mrs RM’s foot and all that.
It may seems as if I have a downer on West London from reading this blog, but I’ve always thought the Thames between Richmond and Fulham rather wonderful (with the Draught Bass in the Express at Brentford the highlight). And the riverside pubs, particularly the White Cross, are a great place to spend £4.50 or more on a pint.
There’s apparently a Sam Smiths pub somewhere in the vicinity too.
But GBG newbie the Mitre is a proper backstreet suburban pub in town, in an area lit up by a few decorative touches and some almshouses I wasn’t allowed in.
Mrs RM was just beginning to doubt my “only be ten minutes honest” line when she spotted respite.
Not the world’s best pub sign, or the most distinctive exterior, but there is something very cosy and welcoming about the suburban London corner pub, whether in Ealing or Kentish Town.
And there’s something of the Pineapple’s unfussy pubbiness here, though note the lack of beer mats. And Bass mirror.
On the upside, we had folk with northern accents, a good beer range (cool and floral Gun and Alchemist, NBSS 3-3.5), and a soundtrack of Gimme’ Shelter and Moonlight Shadow. Any pub that plays Mike Oldfield is OK with me, and was clearly a hit with the Old Boys.
The most exciting thing we saw on the way to the Hope was the plane taking Dick and Dave back to the States, no doubt still arguing about where they’d had the best Bathams (report to follow).
I’m afraid the exterior is the best thing about the Hope, and even that nearly got me killed taking a photo from Kew Gardens Road.
Some adequate but over-chilled Twickenham beer (the one with the sexist name, I’m afraid), disinterested or possibly distracted staff, and a cavernous interior with only the music of Simon and Garfunkel for company. Astonishingly, “Cecilia” for the second time that day. The books on the shelves were about pubs, never a good sign.
But at least it had a shuffle board. Unfortunately I didn’t have my shuffles on me.
Back to the station, via at least four sets of traffic lights, and the least convincing street art since Daventry.
And I left my copy of “Atonement” on the tube, 30 pages from the end.