Wait until next year

Monday, a day off and finally some sunshine, so I spent the day working in the garden, doing some good honest manual labour for once. By late afternoon my body was creaking and it was clear I needed a long, cold drink. I headed for the Duke.

The Duke is a funny old place. You have to ring a buzzer and wait to see if they will let you in. There’s a big screen behind the bar where staff can check whether you’re OK or look like you might start trouble, and then choose to ignore you, speak through the intercom, or buzz you in. I guess this kind of thing could give off a cool speakeasy vibe, of being allowed into a secret den, but in reality it all just feels a bit awkward – furtively waiting outside a pub for their judgement on whether you are a suitable patron or not.

I’ve heard this is related to past trouble, or their licensing conditions, or a combination of the two. I don’t know for sure. But I guess if it means a pub has stayed open I can’t be too critical, even if it does spoil things a little. It’s nice to walk into a pub without fanfare.

So, you press the buzzer, then you hear a second buzz – the judgement has been made and you’re allowed in! However, it is at this point that you realise that the door is really stiff. Or maybe the mechanism hasn’t unlocked yet. One last push and, yes, as you are propelled into the bar it turns out the door just is really stiff after all. It is not the most dignified entrance.

But things pick up. The TV is showing an 80s music channel. “Cuddly Toy” by Roachford has just started playing. I get a warm welcome from the barmaid. It is a pleasantly cluttered place, lots of pictures on the walls, various vases and knick-knacks about, bottles of spirits three-deep behind the bar, but all tastefully done. Somewhere that feels cozy without feeling like you are somebody’s nan’s house. The place was done up a few years ago and with the decor and a really nice green tiled bar it is far, far better than the hovel it used to be. This used to be a pub everyone swerved. Now when I walk by on a Friday night it is packed, generally with an older, fairly affluent crowd, by the looks of things.

I take my drink and then face my next challenge. Where to sit? It’s not that it’s busy, far from it, but every table is adorned with a little reserved label. I mill about a bit. The barmaid realises my predicament and reassures me they are just for Bingo Night later on and I’m free to sit where I like. Crisis averted. But with this and the door shenanigans I feel like a real novice.

The place starts to fill up, slowly. A tradesman with a pint and a paper. A man who sits at the bar, gets out his tablet and controller and starts playing computer games with his pint – certainly not what you see in every pub, but seems as good an activity as any. Some women enter and seem to have brought along some Tarot cards. The gentle hub-bub of regulars begins.

A beer rep decked out in company gear comes in after having similar trouble with the whole buzzer/stiff door set-up. It is good to know I’m not alone. I suspect being a beer rep is not the most fun job. Nobody wants to watch a salesman in a pub. He isn’t too pushy, seems more focused on being helpful, and is soon on his way.

I finish my pint and pop across the road for a Chinese takeaway. I don’t want to get caught up in the rush when the bingo starts.

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March 3, 2026

Notes from a suburban Tuesday morning walk

Black and white photo of a road, with pavement behind, then a chainlink fence holding back trees. In the centre is a lamppost, with a St George's flag hanging off it

Midges gathering around a brick fencepost.

Tradesmen sleepily filling their vans.

The high, eerie hum of the postman’s electric van.

A woman receives her supermarket delivery, then runs out of her front door – a bottle of lemonade has been pierced and is spraying everywhere. She waves it like a Grand Prix winner.

Men with covered faces and smiling eyes straddle a half-built extension, brave the dust their tools generate.

Pavementside trees begin to blossom.

A dog stands outside a bakery patiently while their owner ducks his head in for a morning cake.

A greying, tawdry flag hangs half-mast from a lamppost, is caught in the reaching branches of a nearby tree.

Bees dance around front garden daffodils.

A neighbourly doorstep conversation.

The quiet hope of a park in springtime.

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February 27, 2026

Pub Thoughts #6

A black and white photo of a pub on the corner of a street. There are some mock tudor features, black bars on white walls. On the corner there is a turret with a pointy roof.

God, it’s rained a lot lately. Day after day of the stuff from the start of the year, relentless precipitation, the only variety in weather being whether you’ll get drizzle, a shower or a downpour.

And yet, the dog still needs walking. And one night we headed out for a walk and the heavens opened and we were all soaked and we were very grateful for the dog dragging us obligingly into the nearest pub. She’s a well-trained pub dog.

The Duchess of Kent has always felt very much like a local’s pub. It’s not quite a backstreet pub, but it is pretty tucked away and surrounded by residential streets, a park across the road, a school next door. It is rather handsome on the outside, a corner pub that looks like a cross between a cottage and a castle, a mix of mock tudor and red brick with a conical roofed turret as its centrepiece. We haven’t used it often but it’s always been fine, by no means a destination pub, but certainly a pretty fair option when you’re wet through.

We got the most lovely welcome. The landlady recognised us from the odd visit. She offered to take our coats out to the back to dry them off properly. The dog’s coat was placed over the grill of a small open fire to dry too.

The landlady’s family and friends, who seemed to make up most of the clientele at the time, were shooed away from the fire so we could sit by it and warm up. For a moment it felt much more like being a guest in someone’s home than being a customer in a pub.

Once we’d dried out and thawed out a little we moved away from the fire, not wanting to hog it and increasingly aware that the dog wasn’t too sure about all the spitting sounds from the flames. We found a table in the corner, well placed to take everything in but not feel like we were in the way. The landlady brought over dog treats, told us the dog was welcome to sit on the banquette seat we were on. Her son came over and made a fuss of the dog too. This all pleased the dog very much. We enjoyed a drink and some crisps, packets torn and opened out on the table, as they should be.

A few other people popped in and sat at the bar, nursing their pints. The pool room seemed popular. A woman came in and had a drink while doing the crossword. I always think it is an encouraging sign when you’re in a pub and see women feel comfortable drinking alone in there. The football was on the telly, but more as background than as focus.

It was time to brave the rain again. Hopefully it had died down. We asked for our coats and they were in a much better state than when we came in. Wrestled the dog into her coat. And out into the world giving our thanks for the welcome, for the warmth. We stepped out. The rain wasn’t so bad now.

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February 20, 2026

Pub Thoughts #5

The ceiling of a pub. There is a huge branch reaching across. Various lanterns and light hang from the ceiling and fall between the branches.

Sunday afternoon in The Old Tiger’s Head, Lee. It’s good to see a pub doing well when it has had its fair share of trials and tribulations – to go from boarded-up to thriving is quite an achievement, I think. It was sad seeing its counterpart across the road, The New Tiger’s Head no longer a pub, but at least the building hasn’t been completely left to rot. As an aside, I think more pubs should have matching names.

The place is very much a Sunday Lunch kind of pub. It seems like every table is having a roast dinner. The decor is modern and a bit trendy, but with an underlying pub-ness. It appears to be catering more for the monied folk up the road in Blackheath than the less well-heeled lot down the road in Lee. Everything is, well, keenly priced. The staff, on occasion, seemed harassed.

I could absolutely see why it is popular, but I also thought it wasn’t really my kind of pub.

A midweek lunch at the White Cross, North Cray. A country pub that one day woke up and found a massive dual carriageway was running past it. And as such, it’s not the easiest pub to get to unless you’re driving there.

Inside was all more modern than I was expecting from the look of the place outside and the age of the pub. At a small bar at the front sat a few drinkers, the locals/regulars by the look of it. As you walk around the bar to the back of the pub there’s two seated sections, one very much looking reserved for those having meals, but really the whole area seemed more for eating than drinking. Drinks were to be ordered from the bar. Food from a separate counter. So, you have patrons dancing between the two, and their table, trying to get through their order.

There were older couples, a few people who looked like they’d popped out from work, at one table a big family birthday party.

Clearly the food is what brings people in, and a busy pub on a weekday afternoon is another achievement in this day and age. The staff seemed a bit harassed too.

Clearly food-led pubs can and do work. But I’m not sure they make for the most relaxing places to go. The staff are having to juggle food and drink orders, along with whatever other demands coming from patrons often with very different needs – it’s hard enough serving drinks quickly let alone fielding questions about the menu, asking about allergies or dealing with special requests to change what will be on someone’s plate.

And there can be a bit of an off-vibe too. People in for a pint create a different atmosphere to a big family having a meal. Either can be annoying, and in the same place that annoyance can multiply – either with each other, or with the staff, or from the staff to the customers. Too many things for too many people makes nobody happy.

However, if food helps keep pubs alive I’m all for it. And there’s certainly times when it’s nice to head out for a meal but you want something less formal than a restaurant but with a little more service than a fast food place. But I don’t think it is easy to find places that get both food and drink right – it takes two quite distinct skillsets to strike the right balance and create the best possible environment for everyone to enjoy. A great pub that does food and drink right, with an atmosphere that appeals to all, feels a bit like a unicorn.

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February 13, 2026

Pub Thoughts #4

Pub carpet, red in colour with an illustration of two horses within a circle, along with text saying THE RUNNING HORSES

A very swift half in the Running Horses, Erith. If you were to flick through local history books you would see that Erith once had many pubs in its town centre. Now it only has one. The Running Horses is a rather large and rather handsome 1930s building, overlooking the Thames. The Saloon bar is lovely, with what looks to be the original features, but is generally closed. The public bar is a fair bit more lived in, a reflection perhaps of it taking all the passing pub traffic alone.

I like a pub with a bit of history and a bit of a mythology. Places with a tale to tell, and a tale you can tell yourself when they are mentioned. There’s apparently been a pub on this spot for over 200 years. After its rebuild in the 1930s it was bombed in 1940 – killing the licensee Zachariah William Coles, an ancestor of comedian and Celebrity Traitors winner Alan Carr. There are tales of many years ago the upstairs holding a party and the floor collapsing onto the drinkers below. If you were to mention the pub to anyone local of a certain age they will more than likely tell you all about how popular the pub’s carvery was in the 70s and 80s, how it was the place everyone went on a Sunday afternoon.

The carvery appears to be back, although it doesn’t seem to be as popular as it once was. There are a few people having a drink waiting for it to open. A few others are playing pool. The Winter Olympics is on the telly. We don’t stay long, but there’s a lot to be said for pubs in town centres, where you not only grab a drink but rest your legs, use the loo, escape the shops for a bit. Pubs can, and perhaps should, be a refuge. And when they are they weave themselves into the fabric of the community. They don’t have to be a destination, just a stopping point on the way.

All of this made me think that sometimes we underappreciate pubs as pitstops. They don’t always have to be destinations in and of themselves. We don’t always need to settle in for a session. Sometimes pubs work best as somewhere for a brief reprieve from the outside world before you pop on your coat and brave the big bad world again.

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