The Land of Liberty, Peace, and Plenty, Chorleywood, Hertfordshire   Leave a comment

 

The Red Lion was profoundly disappointing considering its relative inaccessibility on foot.  After returning to paved footpaths upon leaving it, I steered myself along the edge of the Chorleywood Common toward the Land of Liberty, Peace & Plenty which similarly involved running up a pedestrian-unfriendly track, this time trapped between walls and hedges on a single lane with cars at either end of the 100 meter extent.  This better be worth it, I thought.

I needn’t have fretted.

 

 

There was a line of 10 hand pumps there, making the choice difficult.  The landlord gave me time to decide as he discussed the Open with a fellow golfing enthusiast at the packed bar; then, when we were both ready, he poured me a mild, deepest black and rich in flavour, and I found an empty stool at the far end of the bar (every other seat in the house was occupied and there was only standing room just outside — although I think the garden might have been a bit sparser).

 

 

The couple next to me had some library books they were discussing and the house was full of other books.  This is always a good sign, but not as good a sign as a turntable and a collection of vinyl substituting for the jukebox or piped in music:

 

 

Not surprisingly, this is the Hertfordshire Pub of the Year.

As I was leaving, the publican asked where I was walking to, next.  “Oh, just the station at this point,” I said and the couple next to me chuckled and headed off to a recently vacated table.  “But, first…” I added as I excused my self to the loo.  As I left, refreshed, the Mrs of the couple called out, “enjoy the station!”

“I will,” I promised.  “I hear it’s lovely.”  They laughed again.  Nice house.

 

 

Posted July 23, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Red Lion, Chenies, Hertfordshire   2 comments

 

My first local was a Red Lion and I’ve made a point of seeking others out on a regular basis (they aren’t all good, I’m just fond of the name).  The one in Chenies is my 55th and falls about in the middle of the whole spectrum of Red Lion experiences.  The bar lady had nothing to say to me except the price of the pint.  The tables were all laid out for dining (I don’t think they fancy themselves a pub).  It was quiet as a morgue (I was the only customer albeit a little after 6pm on a Friday).  Oh, well.

 

 

I found the atmosphere stifling and took my Paradigm Low Hanging Fruit out to the wee garden and watched occasional cars pass.  The sweat on my shirt started to dry and I felt a bit of a chill so I decided the ambivalent interior might be better considering the persistent respiratory infection I can’t seem to shake.

Sometimes, the pub stop turns out to be nothing more than a box ticking exercise.  I reckoned that the next pub, 3 miles away, might be better so I left my empty glass at the bar and said, “thank you,” to the woman who stared at me silently with unwarranted contempt as though I had just shit on the bar stool (I’m pretty sure I hadn’t).

The building is lovely, though, isn’t it?  To quote the pub’s website,

“This fantastic listed building, parts of which date back to the 16th Century, is privately owned and you are assured a warm welcome every time you visit.”

Is that so?

 

Posted July 22, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Edward VIII Postbox #5, and Chorleywood, Hertfordshire run   1 comment

I took a break from the A2Z Runs this week and just caught the Metropolitan Line out nearly to its limits.  There was a Red Lion to visit not too far away and in the opposite direction a splendid — and splendidly named — pub called the Land of Liberty, Peace, & Plenty.  (pub write-up links as soon as I get around to them)

The route I took (mapped, below) was hillier than I’m used to and the upper respiratory infection that grounded me for four days is lingering making the effort something more of an effort than it should be.

I had just reached a flat point ahead of a long downhill segment and off to my right I spotted a post box.  The royal cipher only clicked with me a few steps along and I had to double back.  Crikey!  This is the first one I’ve found entirely on my own…in the wild, and all.  An Edward VII postbox used to be the Grail, and now they are just dead common.

I’m up to five E8R postboxes, now, four of them this year within about 10 miles of my house!  Find this one on Haddon Road at Shire Lane, Chorleywood.  The most recent previous one was in Nunhead a couple weeks back, and the ones before that were on the P for Postboxes Run.  More to come, soon…I can just feel it.

 

Posted July 22, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in art, Tourism

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The Marquis of Granby, New Cross, London   Leave a comment

I was standing at the bar in the Marquis of Granby waiting for the bartender for a second round when the (probably) trans-gal from Transylvania who drifted in behind me asked with a heavy Romanian accent, “Is it tobin?”

“I’m sorry. Is it what-was-that?”

“Is it tobin?” She repeated, then pantomime looked around and back a me then the guy parked at the end of the bar.  I looked at him to and his eyes darted around in the universal sign language for, “no, me neither, you’re on your own.”

“I’m really sorry, I’m not getting a word of that.”

She repeated slowly then looked at me quizzically. “Oh, you are no not a native Englisher speaker.”

“No, I speak English very well.  I had lessons as a child.”

The guy at the bar agreed and added, “yes, it’s not him, it’s you,” grudgingly coming to my defence.  I asked for it once more, and got,

“Is. It. O. Bin.”

“Oh, is it OPEN?  Yes, of course it is.  They wouldn’t let us lot stay in here for free.”  Now she looked confused.

“I thought it was maybe a private party.”

By now the bartender was back and I got our refills.  “What was THAT all about?” Jackie asked on my return.

“Dunno,” I honestly answered.  “This shit seems to follow me around.”

 

They don’t have a website.  The earlier link is a review that makes my experience seem rather unexpected.  Here’s the WhatPub entry.

 

Posted July 18, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Amersham Arms, New Cross, London   Leave a comment

 

The Amersham Arms is a hipster joint but I’ve seen a lot worse.  They are known for music and I saw a bunch of top comedy acts lined up for Mondays all summer.  It reminds me a lot of an unpretentious version of the Jericho Tavern not least because of its proximity to Goldsmith’s, University of London.  Good selection of craft-like keg beers but it seems like it would be cheaper to stick with liquor (I had a £4.50 pint of cider which was really nice with the cold medicine I’ve been surviving on since Saturday but is kind of taking the price piss).

Of course, it isn’t far from the Mountain of Fire and Miracles so I guess I could pray for a Happy Hour deal.

 

 

Posted July 18, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Mountain of Fire And Miracles Ministries, New Cross, London   1 comment

I took this photo on New Cross Road while exploring a the neighbourhoods around the site where Jackie was interviewing for a job. I wholly intended to make fun of the quaint storefront Christian church until I read up on them a bit. Not only backward but truly scary motherfuckers, this lot (I don’t think they’ll have a problem with me calling them “scary”).

They claim their church is “where your hands are trained to wage war and your fingers to do battle,” and with sub-groups such as God’s Violent Army and the Territorial Intercessors there is no reason to doubt their resolve. They hunt witches, for fuck’s sake…WITCHES.

Here’s a copy of a well circulated list of rules for couples planning to marry within the church. Good stuff:

 

 

 

Posted July 18, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Made Me Laugh, Tourism

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The Viaduct, Hanwell, London   1 comment

 

The fourth pub on the day’s run was the Viaduct on the Uxbridge Road between Hayes and Ealing, at the once navigable River Brent, and close enough to the railroad tracks to heave a pint glass.  I don’t know which of these entails the Viaduct for which it is named, though.

It was mostly groups of people so I sat alone but not lonely.  Three primary schoolgirls in yellow uniforms waddled past.  “Ducks?” I asked the mum in charge that followed them toward the loo.  She rolled her eyes and said, “quack, quack,” as she passed.

A retarded guy stopped by and talked for a minute before moving on to a table around the corner.  I am even more comfortable than normal using the archaic nomenclature, by the way, because when I pointed at his glass and tried to ask what he was drinking, he interrupted thus:

“What are you–” drinking, I would have finished.
“Retarded,” he interrupted, looking satisfied, even smug.

 

 

 

Posted July 15, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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