retiredmartin

August 2024. Dartford.

We’d left Waterbeach at 3:45 and parked up just over the Dartford Bridge in our first Holiday Inn Express for a decade, a hulking monolith overlooking the M25 A282 in possibly the UK’s noisiest location outside of Maidenhead’s Honeypot.

While Mrs RM fiddled with Wi-Fi I’d headed along a grim suburb of Dartford to the station, getting my two ticks (Charlton and Plumstead) in the bag by half seven.

There’s almost as much joy in planning these pubbing raids as actually drinking the beer. No, actually far more, particularly when it involved exploring London by rail, bus and foot in rapid order, and stumbling upon the astonishing facade of the Plumstead Radical Club.

Back in Dartford, at the platform where Mick and Keith first met to nick old blues tunes, I considered my next steps waiting on the luxury benches and called my wife.

It transpired Mrs RM realised I’d gone missing from our bijou room, had forgotten about her arrangement to meet up in Dartford for haute cuisine, and instead said “I’m not moving, bring back a bottle of wine“.

Well, time for at least one revisit I reckoned,

skipping the estimable Working Mens Club and micro pub in favour of the trad Malt Shovel.

This place had obviously left a deep impression on me as a remote Youngs pub 15 years ago,

though I couldn’t remember why.

Oh yes, classic bench seating,

serious drinkers,

and The Witching Table.

Actually, I don’t remember that.

A joy of a pub, orchestrated by a cheery barman who greeted allcomers by name (except me, obvs). It was Neil’s 65th birthday and I congratulated him on the acquisition of a bus pass.

Standing at the bar, I suddenly realised my Proper Job had been sitting on the other bar for all of 2 minutes while I chatted to Neil.

“Should be ready now ?“

“Well rested, anyways !” says our barman.

It’s certainly well rested, a description of beer character to rival “chewy” (NBSS 3+), if a degree or two above the ideal.

Outside, I make a dash back to the hotel, pausing only to admire the famous post box,

and find it impossible to resist the lure of the most undemonstrative India Take Away in London.

While I wait for my Lamb Makhani meal for one, I attempt to buy Mrs RM’s Malbec from the Co-op, which sells no alcohol but directs me to the Asian “sweet shop” next door, which does.

Haldi’s £13.95 feast can go either of two ways, I reckon.

But, in the end, it goes straight down the middle (NCTSS 3.5). A metaphor for something, I guess.