retiredmartin

December 2023. Bexleyheath.

Note ultra-rare photo of Mrs RM sitting patiently waiting for her pint, NOT scrolling on her phone. Frame that one.

My father-in-law was moved from Tunbridge Wells Hospital to Sevenoaks, a cruel and unusual punishment for an 85 year old man I thought, but it made our visit to his rehab ward easy.

Our own rehab from being confined to one place for more than a day was a pub stop on the way. I toyed with the Fox at Orsett, but when on the M25 you really want the psychological bonus of being over Dartford bridge.

Before we come on to Bexleyheath, WHO or WHAT is Festubert Place at the top of that map. Interestingly, or not, it seems to be next door to that Lord Tredegar in Bow that wowed us exactly a year ago.

The Long Haul in Bexleyheath didn’t wow us quite so much, but then it’s a suburban micropub.

It even says “micropub” on the sign.

Keeping it company in a row of useful shops is a Co-op which didn’t accept my Waterbeach Co-op loyalty card, and a whelks and winkles merchant.

Keeping the seafood theme going, Mrs RM asked for a “She Sells Seashells”.

“Is that a pint” asks matey.

“Is that OK” says Mrs RM, indignant.

“Because you said the beer name right, it is”. Good recovery, Sir.

Bexley Borough is home to dozens of micros like these, and if pushed I’d struggle to tell it apart from the Kentish Belle or the Bird & Barrel in a year’s time, but that’s not a criticism. Oh no.

I appreciated the immense (and deliberate) effort they’d clearly gone to to deliver the absolute minimum of festive decoration (see baubles, below),

and the Gadds was cool and chewy (3.5).

And that’s the thing with pubs. Wherever two or three are gathered in a pub, there will be pub life.