retiredmartin

September 2024. St Albans.

Three (3) campervan overnighters in St Albans already this year, and I still haven’t revisited the Lower Red Lion or the Six Bells. Or even the Fighting Cocks.

Because they’re virtually all closed by 11, as I arrive back at the City station from St Pancras on a carriage full of Snorbans discussing “Kiss Me Kate” and French holidays.

No, my late night choices boil down to the Spoons,

(nice place, didn’t feel it tonight),

the Boot, or the almost genuine Irish boozer hidden in the lane beside the town hall.

I popped in the White Swan late on only last month,

with a withering verdict;

“A half. In a warm glass. And it’s awful (0.5)*. First plant pot pour of ’24. Stick to Guinness, folks.“

So this time, I did. It’s a Guinness pub, from the tables,

to the walls.

to the obligatory Chris de Burgh.

But really, drinking Guinness at 23:31 is probably a bad idea.

In Soho that evening I’d seen Guinness in virtually every pub. If this is as good as it gets outside of Dublin it’s a tad disappointing. Cool and foamy, but lacking bite. Definitely not chewy.

Nice pub, mind, and it’s OPEN.

Which is more than can be said for St Albans takeaways. I couldn’t find one (and didn’t need one, but that’s a different issue). So thanks to The Boot, who sold me a packet of cheese and onion Pipers for the walk back down Lower Dagnall Street, after I’d rejected the pork scratching because they were actually crackling. Folks, always reject the crackling.