Well, this is an easy post on Brentford. Would have been better if I’d popped back in the Express Tavern for a Bass, of course, but these itineraries need to work like clockwork.
So as I stood waiting for the E2 that seemed reluctant to come and staring at a sign for Piri Piri.
Second only to Virgin trains, I detest buses as a means of transport. Unreliable, slow, bumpy and you never know when to get off. Legs are much better.
With the ten minute wait for the E2, I’d have been quicker to walk two miles to the Black Dog Beer House.
I could then have had a close-up of the M4 flyover and Griffin Park rather than the snatched shot from the top deck.
Actually, the E2 dropped me at the Beehive, due to some “incident” in the High Street. There’s always an incident in Brentford, generally a group of CAMRAs from Sussex demanding a top up or tasters or summat.
The High Street was, in fact, eerily quiet. I presume they’d been told to evacuate ahead of the BRAPA visit that Saturday, which threatened to be as bloody as the defence led by Cassivellaunus in 54 BC.
After his victory over Casesar’s forces Cassivellaunus popped into McDonalds for one of those 99p double espressos introduced by the Romans. As I did now.
In 2019, he’d have popped in the Black Dog for spreadable chorizo. As I did now.
The posh sounding pub snacks came as a bit of a surprise, as I was expecting a down-to-earth beery micro, rather than this cross between the Sussex Arms and the Antelope in the same side of town.
With a bit of Preston’s Vinyl Tap thrown in.
Bob & Earl had never sounded so good.
At the bar I placed my order for Sobrasada, flung my coat over the chair near the wondrous smelling fire to claim it, and looked confusedly at the pumps.
Always pick the beer called Kill Cat, and then feel guilty as the pub cat makes your acquaintance.
As so often, Nancy is the star, and is clearly adored by the cheery staff.
I felt a bit guilty about eating my lunch in front of her, but she’s well fed.
Wonderful lunch, better than OK ale (NBSS 3), great company.
Next to me Americans were on the ginger beer, but a group of Ladies who Lunch were less reserved.
Perhaps the most West London pub in Brentford, if that makes sense. “Twickenham with a soul” I wrote. Simon will know what I mean, even if I dont.