Onward. From Hammersmith to Earl’s Court.
Via lost cats,
and crumbling tube stations, to more beer and curry.
Charles and I would have walked the mile from the Dove, of course. But the steps down to the tube do you good. I think.
20 years ago Earl’s Court would have been full of super-fit Aussies on a Saturday night.
I guess they’ve either gone home or given up Walkabouts for gyms, as it’s quieter than Maidenhead on Thursday.
As I write this, the GBG App tells me my closest Guide pub is in Cladach Kiribost, 4,649 miles away.
There weren’t many pre-curry GBG options in Earl’s Court, but at least Fuller’s King’s Head was close by.
7pm on Saturday night in West London, folks.
High tables just don’t cut it, do they.
Nice staff, fresh flowers, foaming Pride, Curry Charles in soft focus discussing haggis hunts in the Highlands with Joan.
Again, the Pride was fine, but hardly anything to send a Southworth homeward bound thinking they’d had the ultimate cask experience (NBSS 3).
Mrs RM had reached the stage of the evening where she compares people to Magic Roundabout characters. I get to be Dougal, fluffy and dim.
Not sure why she deserved an exorbitant bottle of Rochefort 8 after that.
I only succumbed as a lone chap on the next table had one (“I’LL have a Rochefort” as the Babycham advert goes).
Charles chatted to him. He talks to everyone. It’s the killer instinct of the auditor. Turns out he came from Comberton, 10 miles down the road from me.
This guy left Cambridgeshire so he could go in London pubs that use Cole & Lewis hand-wash.
Aren’t Americans lovely?
We met some of the extended Southworth clan in Masala Zone, one of the best curries I’ve had in London.
My notes say only “Mrs RM destroyed the elephant”. Is that a euphemism?
I leave you with Dick’s list of beers consumed in London on their trip.
The Pride may not be drinking quite as well as it was in 2007, but that’s not the brewer’s fault. Or the Southworths.