retiredmartin

March 2026. Wallington. South London.

Another week, another American troubador*, another chance to makes inroads into London GBG, another chance to marvel at the capital’s integrated transport system as I whizz from St Pancras around Croydon towards Wallington, a mile’s walk from Carshalton and The Hope.

It’s not an essential visit, even by my meagre standards, but it does have a giant Pricebusters, and giant Defibrillator,

and a giant kerb that prevents you jaywalking across to the Wetherspoons.

I’d ticked the Whispering Moon many moons ago, but my Beddington pub isn’t open for a while and I know you like these revisits to London heritage pubs.

This is a wonderful Spoons, seemingly unchanged since conversion from a cinema 34 years ago.

Tiny (downstairs loo) but with more nooks and crannies than a Sam Smiths pub, and packed at 2:55 on Wednesday, with minimal food trade.

On the table opposite, a cultural melting pot. Carribean, Indian and South Londoner with foot brace, young and old, man and woman, join together in a celebration of Spoons lager prices.

I have a pint of Pride (drinking well, NBSS 3.5) with my sticky Korean chicken bowl,

which I sense is becoming too regular a habit.

I could have hopped back on to that kerb and back on the train to Waddon, but where’s the fun in that when you can walk 20 minutes through featureless Wallington ?

Built-up residential South London in all its glory there.

“Plain, going on Proper. Smells like middle-age laundry” say my notes, and since writing notes while walking at 5km/h is tricky it must have been notable. Perhaps it’s the lavender for which Wallington was once known.

And then suddenly, from nowhere, London emerges majestically in the distance.

_{*actually “trobairitz”}