Friday, 12 August 2011

Ascot Advice in the Earl of Lonsdale

The sun was glowing lazily in the sky as I stood outside the night club in disbelief with my two friends. For the second time in as many weeks the 1920s night had been cancelled. The band was sick apparently. Our voyage up Portobello Road, our stylish and elegant costumes, our hastily practised Charlestons, all had been in vain. There was nothing else for it. We would have to find a pub.

Thankfully The Earl of Lonsdale was waiting patiently for us just around the corner. The cream-coloured pub gleamed at us in the fading light and we stepped inside, weary with frustration and keen for a drink. Three things strike you upon entering this lovely little pub. First of all, it’s a Sam Smith’s pub, a haven for those looking for decent beer at less than £2 a pint and full of interesting stained glass and quirky lighting. Secondly it’s layout it one of strangest you’ll see. The pub is split up into eighths by thin wooden walls and the only way to get to each is to step through tiny, lightweight doors as though you’re inside a maze designed by Bilbo Baggins. The third thing that you notice is that through this mess of doors lurks a beer garden and we burrowed through the bar to settled outside and enjoy the rest of the balmy evening before I headed inside to get the first round.

“Win much today?” came a friendly voice from my left as I waited for the drinks.

“Nah,” I replied nonchalantly, unsure what was being asked of me.

“Who did you bet on then?”

At this point I turned and saw that a one of the locals gathered around the corner of the bar was looking at me with keen interest. I looked down at myself, suddenly acutely aware that, dressed as I was in a brown trilby and suit, I looked like I’d just been at the races at Ascot that day. I grinned uncertainly.

“I can’t really remember really. Lost a fair bit of money though.”

The man nodded his condolences, asked if I’d had a good day all the same and offered some advice for betting should I head along the following day. I stayed at the bar for a full twenty minutes, listening to his advice, hearing the stories of when he’d first gone to Epsom, what he thought of the hats on Ladies’ Day, how the different horses had been performing and on what surface.

I have had the pleasure of going to Ascot just the once and it was this single experience of horse racing that gave me enough bluff to see out the conversation before I remembered my friends outside and had to head outside into the beer garden.

A few beers later and it was my turn to get the next round once again. I went in, fully aware that I would have to order next to the man I had spoken to while I waited and frantically trying to think of something horsey to say to him. In the end I needn’t have bothered. He had gathered four of his friends together, each of whom raised their glasses in solidarity to me as I entered.

“Bad luck today, mate.”

“Should have bet on Trout’s Leap.”

“Better luck tomorrow, eh?”

In the space of an hour I felt like I had become some kind of celebrity, simply by mishearing the first question cordially asked of me when I entered the bar. I stayed with them a while longer, chatting and exchanging jokes and by the time the three of us left the bar a group of well wishers had gathered to see us off. It was one of the most joyous moments of spontaneity in a pub of the season.

Wednesday, 3 August 2011

A Scotsman in St Stephen’s Tavern

 Why good evening to you delightful folk. I trust you are well. This next tale details one of the first chance meetings that I had in a pub in London. St Stephen’s Tavern sits in the shadow of St Stephens Tower, that emblematic home to Big Ben at the end of the Houses of Parliament. The bar is small and always chock full of tourists and local so you’ve really got to wrestle your way through to get a drink. It’s usually pretty hot in this Victorian-style pub so something refreshing like a Hopping Hare is what I’d recommend.
Legend has it that it was one of the first pubs to install CCTV and had a direct line to Parliament so that Whips in the House could spot if MPs had sneaked out for a sneaky pint and call them back to vote and such.
I was a mere wide-eyed youth of 18 soaking up the Big Smoke when I wandered in here for an evening drink. The place was unusually quiet and I got a seat at the bar and sat musing to myself when I heard a voice pipe up from behind me.
“You do know it’s not allowed for people to drink alone here?”
An elderly Scotsman in a sober suit settled down next to me and ordered himself a pint. After introducing himself he offered me a second and I’ve never been one to refuse a drink. Once he’d discovered that I was a penniless student, he refused to let me pay for another round, making this evening not just a spontaneous delight but a damn near free one too!
It transpired that he was in the fabric trading business, travelling across the world selling differing cloths to different people. Most of his time, though, was spent in Mongolia, the most sparsely populated country on Earth. The tales he told me about this empty, wild and remarkable country held me enthralled.
He told me of the capital city of Ulan Bator, the tent city that the Soviets had concreted over; of the Mongolians' reputation as the hardest drinking nation on the planet; of their awe inspiring abilities on horseback and their obsession with riding, archery and wrestling.
The two of us drank long into the night and though I have never seen this besuited Scotsman since his words have stayed with me to this day. In fact, last year I finally fulfilled an ambition held ever since that night and went there on my way from Moscow to Beijing.

St Stephen’s Tavern can be found on 10 Bridge Street, London, SW1A 2JR