retiredmartin

February 2025. Hillingdon Village.

I don’t get as hung up as some folk about historical counties, boundary lines and the truth, but I have been exercised by the existence, or otherwise, of an actual Hillingdon.

Not the Borough, which includes Uxbridge and gives the football club its name,

but Hillingdon Village, with pretty cottages, vegan bookshops, pubs and a church. Until last week, I’d never been, and I need to tick everywhere.

I reckon the Village is the straight line from St John up the A437 to the eponymous tube, and started with by scoring the church.

This piece show BRAPA as a child, asking Daddy BRAPA to read him extracts from the 1986 Beer Guide.

A solid, unspectacular NCSS 3.5, but my exploration was cut short at 15:02 by a lady who was locking up, so I can’t bring you the finer details you crave.

Across the road sits the independent bakery named after the 1993 Arrested Development hit, with a bargain meal deal.

Wenzel’s is the high point of a mile trudge through unremarkable suburbia and Catholic schools.

I tried so hard to find something, anything of interest and gave up.

Even the bench where I finally sat to scoff a Katsu chicken baguette and cheese and onion crisps (NKCBSS 2.5) was a let down.

And then, Hillingdon redemption.

A literal station pub, 5 steps from the tube, the only boozer in the village.

One apologetic GK IPA pump and some clingfilmed cobs.

What a place. An Irish pub without the plastic Paddies.

Racing from Punchestown,

the 1970s soundtrack,

the lone blokes dotted around the bench seats enjoying their own company.

The half of IPA takes 5 minutes to pour, and tastes as you’d expect (NBSS 2).

There aren’t many pubs called The Swallow in the country. I bet BRAPA could come with a really lewd blog title if it ever gets in the Guide. I’ll leave him to it.