I knew things would pick up as soon as I made it into South-east London, they always do.
On Tuesday I set off from Waterbeach with a notional target of eight pubs to finish off That London, my trusty Indy Man pencil, and a scruffy bit of paper I couldn’t read.
Oh, and the Deserter book. I managed two chapters, which included a great moth joke.
No golf bore this time, so here’s a view from the window.
Exciting, huh ?
Northern Line to a bewilderingly refurbished London Bridge station, where I inadvertently paid £16 (sixteen) for an umbrella to replace the one I’d equally inadvertently left at Kings Cross.
It wasn’t going well. I had a whine to Duncan, who was unsympathetic.
Things picked up. A very fast link to Greenwich, the first time there since I watched something called Notro Circus at the O2 with two teenagers.
Mrs RM is actually working down there in New Cross, staying at an “Only Fools and Horses” themed pub which she should really blog about.
And she should really pop in the Morden Arms before it’s turned into a gastropub.
Only five minutes from the pashmina pubs around the market and the Cutty Sark, this is an astonishing survivor.
It was love at first sight. A shame there was only one other customer, a chap organising his next work after a long spell touring the world.
I had a great welcome from a Landlady who spent longer pulling beer through the pumps than I spent drinking my half of Truman’s Swift.
It was £1.50, and a very decent drop (NBSS 3).
“Are you sure ?” I said, sounding a little doubtful at the price.
Apparently the tills were being updated and prices for a half might be a bit off the pace.
At least a decade behind with those prices.
A charming place in which to attempt to resurrect a misbehaving umbrella while being regaled with stories about mammoth trees on North Island.
I don’t think that’s the real Dylan visiting tomorrow, but you never know.