retiredmartin

November 2024. Walthamstow. E17.

After 3 weeks stuck in the parental home in Waterbeach I headed down into Kent where Mrs RM was paying her own elderly folk some overdue attention.

Approaching middle-age, I’ve pretty much swapped the car for the train, particularly in the winter months, and you can get from Cambridge to Rye by rail in a little over 2 hours if you walk faster than the average Londoner. Which I do.

Of course, it’ll take longer than that if you break your journey in The Smoke for a bit of GBG pubbing, and by a huge stroke of luck I found the Victoria line from Finsbury Park to Walthamstow would get me two ticks by 12:30. On a Sunday.

First visit to central E17 for a few years, since they named their pubs things like “Mirth, Marvel and Mildred“, with the beery attention all being a stop earlier at Blackhorse Lane‘s industrial estates with its classy beer mile.

I always reckon you need to revisit the UK’s towns and cities every 3rd year to see the subtle changes in pubs, food, and art,

and most notably Walthamstow seems to have got itself a shiny shopping centre and food court, a mini-Westgate, complete with beer bar.

Not sure about those cans,

and I’m definitely not starting a perfectly curated pub exploration with craft. I left those for the Untappd crowd, stopping only to appreciate the first airing of the greatest Christmas song,

though I appreciate that opinions on this matter divide roughly 52/48.

They had one of those sweetcorn carts at the arcade entrance, but this one sold kebab filled rotis for £4,

and if you walk through London eating on the go at least you’re not likely to be looking at your phone as well, which is a major safety improvement.

The new Guide pub is in The Village, named a deep cut on “Power, Corruption and Lies“. You’ll know the sleeve, anyhow.

And you’ll recognise this particular east London corner pub type,

opposite an old bakery that’s now become an, oh, a bakery.

I must visit a couple of this exact pub type in east London every year; low stools round iron wrought tables, big windows giving early warning of pushchairs which will soon need the door open to them.

I love the family-friendliness of London pubs on a Sunday lunchtime, and as you watch a procession of parents with Joie strollers and Baby Bjorn carriers (ah, the memories !) heading down Orford Road for their roasrs you can almost believe the fertility crisis facing the Western World is fake news.

The young staff are, as always, the highlight.

“Just let that settle” says the cheery barman.

What does that even mean ? He returns a minute later, considers that “head” and says “No mate, can’t get any more in there“.

In fairness, that Foundation is sweet but tasty enough, maybe even a 3, but I challenge you to say anyone who normally drinks Madri of Neck Oil is gonna look at that and go “Hmm, must try some cask“.

Right, let’s attempt to catch a bus.