MEA CULPA
After further research, i.e. another visit to the Wenlock Arms, it has become apparent that my earlier directions to this unsung bastion of English Culture were seriously deficient. I apologise to those of you who have followed my earlier advice (“Christmas Shopping”), and given up in disgust.
Therefore I begin again, from scratch. Having entered a tube station in London, any tube station, make your way to Kings Cross Station and change to the Northern Line, Southbound platform, (or just get on the Northern Line in the first place). Go through Angel to Old Street and look for exit 1: City Road North (East side). Walk about 1/4 mile along City road, you will pass Moorfields Eye Hospital on your left, Westland Place and Shepherdess Walk on your right, and come to Windsor Terrace, which has a tiny park at its entrance. Turn right into Windsor Terrace, which becomes Wenlock Road, and go 300 yards up Wenlock Road to the corner of Sturt Street. There are 8 exits from Old Street Station, and I had not realised how important it is to take the right one.
After arranging belatedly to pay the Council Tax on our little home, following up on the missing sunvisor from our car, and pursuing Bulldog for the refund of our installation fee for the failed internet connection, visiting Marks and Spencers to get a refund on one of the two pure new wool jumpers I bought for Pennie for Christmas (I never did find a decent cotton blouse in any market or clothes shop: it must be the wrong season), and buying some stuff for Gwilym at the travellers shop, I felt lunch was in order: those superb doorstop-size salt beef sandwiches at the Wenlock beckoned, and it was onto the tube and away. The range of ales had changed completely except for the one regular: Adnams Bitter from Southwold on the Suffolk coast. Suffice it to say that I experimented, but with half pints, and ‘taster glasses’, not pints I hasten to add, and was guided by an older gent next to me who I noticed had a notebook with all today’s ales listed by name, alcohol content and price. I asked rather flippantly had he dropped his (trainspotter’s) anorak in favour of beer spotting? No, he said a little defensively, he had never been a trainspotter. These were the ales he had tried in the last 12 months; he was a third the way through a fairly hefty notebook, and said there were currently 1700 ales on offer in UK. (I think he’s out of date: the CAMRA Good Beer Guide for 2006 lists 2500) His liver was coping, we established: he had been to his doctor, had the test and then done it again because the doctor didn’t believe the result, and his liver is fine. His knowledge of pubs and their offerings is awesome, but I gathered he is not married so being in a pub is like being at home.
A young man came in on my left, and looked closely at all the labels on the beer engines (i.e. pump handles), but remained hesitant. By this time I felt competent to help, and pointed to wwwdot (that is its name), by the Tollgate Brewery, which is so new or so small that it doesn’t even feature in the CAMRA book. It is a dark caramel, strongly hopped ale of 5.4% ABV and for this punter is the best so far. Colour, body, hops, smooth finish with lingering hops. Does it get any better? The chances of finding it again are almost zero. Such is the way with some of the smaller breweries.
We got chatting, and it emerged he had told her indoors he was just popping out to the shops for 15 minutes, and he is convinced she has no idea where he goes. He is Irish, from County Mayo, his wife is Chinese, from Hong Kong! And he can’t stand the Birmingham accent. I rather like Brum: Tom and I bought our car there, and I just revelled in the way they talked, so there we differed. Curious as to how people end up finding the Wenlock, I asked what a nice young man like him was doing in a place like this: he said he’s not young, he’s fifty. Well, blow me down with a feather, I thought he was 35 or 40. So we asked the barmaid: she thought, after asking him to stand up, turn completely around and touch his toes, that he was 39. So you can never tell.
Then home to Wood Green by tube, packed in the evening peak hour but coping magnificently as ever, to find that dearest Penelope had roasted the chicken we bought from the butcher in Hursley, a village between Romsey and Winchester, the day before. Accompanied by roast potatoes from Royal Windsor Farm, kumera, parsnip and broccoli and a bit of creamed corn, it put a certain crown on the day.
Speaking of that missing sunvisor for the car, I was very taken by the quick humour of the gent on the phone at the used car dealer’s. I pointed out we had bought the car in October, it was now January and the visor had still not materialised. “Oh, well, it’s early days” he said! I laughed out loud, said that being Australian I appreciated the humour, but had I been American I would by now be contemplating a nuclear strike. “We don’t sell cars to Americans, sir”.
Therefore I begin again, from scratch. Having entered a tube station in London, any tube station, make your way to Kings Cross Station and change to the Northern Line, Southbound platform, (or just get on the Northern Line in the first place). Go through Angel to Old Street and look for exit 1: City Road North (East side). Walk about 1/4 mile along City road, you will pass Moorfields Eye Hospital on your left, Westland Place and Shepherdess Walk on your right, and come to Windsor Terrace, which has a tiny park at its entrance. Turn right into Windsor Terrace, which becomes Wenlock Road, and go 300 yards up Wenlock Road to the corner of Sturt Street. There are 8 exits from Old Street Station, and I had not realised how important it is to take the right one.
After arranging belatedly to pay the Council Tax on our little home, following up on the missing sunvisor from our car, and pursuing Bulldog for the refund of our installation fee for the failed internet connection, visiting Marks and Spencers to get a refund on one of the two pure new wool jumpers I bought for Pennie for Christmas (I never did find a decent cotton blouse in any market or clothes shop: it must be the wrong season), and buying some stuff for Gwilym at the travellers shop, I felt lunch was in order: those superb doorstop-size salt beef sandwiches at the Wenlock beckoned, and it was onto the tube and away. The range of ales had changed completely except for the one regular: Adnams Bitter from Southwold on the Suffolk coast. Suffice it to say that I experimented, but with half pints, and ‘taster glasses’, not pints I hasten to add, and was guided by an older gent next to me who I noticed had a notebook with all today’s ales listed by name, alcohol content and price. I asked rather flippantly had he dropped his (trainspotter’s) anorak in favour of beer spotting? No, he said a little defensively, he had never been a trainspotter. These were the ales he had tried in the last 12 months; he was a third the way through a fairly hefty notebook, and said there were currently 1700 ales on offer in UK. (I think he’s out of date: the CAMRA Good Beer Guide for 2006 lists 2500) His liver was coping, we established: he had been to his doctor, had the test and then done it again because the doctor didn’t believe the result, and his liver is fine. His knowledge of pubs and their offerings is awesome, but I gathered he is not married so being in a pub is like being at home.
A young man came in on my left, and looked closely at all the labels on the beer engines (i.e. pump handles), but remained hesitant. By this time I felt competent to help, and pointed to wwwdot (that is its name), by the Tollgate Brewery, which is so new or so small that it doesn’t even feature in the CAMRA book. It is a dark caramel, strongly hopped ale of 5.4% ABV and for this punter is the best so far. Colour, body, hops, smooth finish with lingering hops. Does it get any better? The chances of finding it again are almost zero. Such is the way with some of the smaller breweries.
We got chatting, and it emerged he had told her indoors he was just popping out to the shops for 15 minutes, and he is convinced she has no idea where he goes. He is Irish, from County Mayo, his wife is Chinese, from Hong Kong! And he can’t stand the Birmingham accent. I rather like Brum: Tom and I bought our car there, and I just revelled in the way they talked, so there we differed. Curious as to how people end up finding the Wenlock, I asked what a nice young man like him was doing in a place like this: he said he’s not young, he’s fifty. Well, blow me down with a feather, I thought he was 35 or 40. So we asked the barmaid: she thought, after asking him to stand up, turn completely around and touch his toes, that he was 39. So you can never tell.
Then home to Wood Green by tube, packed in the evening peak hour but coping magnificently as ever, to find that dearest Penelope had roasted the chicken we bought from the butcher in Hursley, a village between Romsey and Winchester, the day before. Accompanied by roast potatoes from Royal Windsor Farm, kumera, parsnip and broccoli and a bit of creamed corn, it put a certain crown on the day.
Speaking of that missing sunvisor for the car, I was very taken by the quick humour of the gent on the phone at the used car dealer’s. I pointed out we had bought the car in October, it was now January and the visor had still not materialised. “Oh, well, it’s early days” he said! I laughed out loud, said that being Australian I appreciated the humour, but had I been American I would by now be contemplating a nuclear strike. “We don’t sell cars to Americans, sir”.
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