Day in London

Following the success of the Tuesday night (see this finely crafted link) and the sharing of some lighter ales, my father and I did indeed get the train the following day to London to see the exhibition and share some meals. We stopped off for breakfast in Carluccio's in St Pancras (we agreed that this was easily the nicest of all the stations with rail links north) where I had a lovely mushrooms with scrambled egg on toast, hit the exhibition and then I took him on the longest walk you can really manage in London to The Harp - because I would be remiss not to. It was a lovely warm day, my father and I got to share our observations about architecture in the capital and ruminate on the effects of Modernism and Gerogian-style buildings mingling due to the gaps left by the Blitz and other such human disasters, all the while looking in at the occasional park and discussing the Russian Revolution because, frankly, why wouldn't you?

Surprised to meet Gandhi here but only snapped
Virginia.

This is very much a truncated story of pubbing about London primarily due to the fact that I needed to have the time to get the alcohol out of my system before driving back home in the evening. A feat that I managed (with suitably long gap twixt drink and drive of around five or so hours) and got home at a late enough point that Willow, Hooty and Girlie were asleep, but the Boy was awake. Would you like to know more?

The first job was to find a decent hostelry from our position on the road that joins the big stations of Euston, St Pancras and King's Cross. Obviously I suggested the Harp and we embarked on a half hour walk to attain such location, wherein I was regaled with some tales of my father on his first trip to London and I was able to point out some of my favourite odd decorations on the side of otherwise Georgian style buildings. By the time we arrived at a surprisingly empty Harp (I could actually walk around the interior unmolested), well, it was a Wednesday, my father was ready for something to slake the thirst and I was ready for a stout, having denied myself foolishly the night before.

So it was that I went straight for the Mad Squirrel, about whom I have heard much on the electronic grapevine amongst beer drinkers that I am in contact with. To that end, I am late to this party, but the adage about a decent pub having a stout on remains very true in this case. I had the De La Creme milk stout because it would have been daft not to, and at 4% ABV it was hardly likely to do me much harm! Being partial to a bit of a milk stout this did carry the slight risk of not being entirely to my taste but it definitely did the job. Big hit of proper cream on the nose with that slight edge of sour and suffocating in velvet fronds. Nice creamy head, slightly brown, atop a deep dark glass of joy that was almost exactly the right temperature. It was warm out but with a breeze that made it about right for trousers rather than shorts and this fit that very nicely indeed. Good and smooth on the opening, with the lactose feel and plenty of depth to it. Soft and fluffy into the centre of the taste with an element of oatmeal and porridge, before it falls to the back of the mouth like slightly melted ice-cream and coffee, without the actual bitter twang of coffee, just the consistency. Like milky hot-chocolate without the chocolate. Mind you, there was an element of something roasted and dark hanging about this one, I assume chocolate malt, and that was very welcome. This could have been had as a dessert stout but mainly it was so welcome after I hadn't brought one with me and served to justify, to me, the long trip down on foot before lunch. Okay, that last modifying phrase may have made this a bridge to far, and so it was fortified by this lovely stout, the soft and soothing aftertaste very much till in the mouth, that we made our way to Covent Garden and a bite to eat.

It was duck for me, with something made with potato on the side and a rich gravy to go with the meat, as one might expect from such fayre. Lovely place to eat outside and there was a bit of a breeze that caused some trouble. My father and I could very well have walked without paying and no one would have noticed but we are made of honest stuff and stuck around. Then it was a more open stroll and explore ending up down China-Town and into Shaftesbury Avenue in and out of the theatre area before we happened across The White Horse which, surprisingly, turned out to be a Samuel Smith's brewery pub! Of course I was very excited!

I didn't even really do a proper cursory look, I just drank in (ha) the view and then went straight for the Extra Stout at 4.5% ABV because it would have been rude not to. I was very much wondering about picking up some bottles too but eventually came to the conclusion that there was no real way to get them home in anything like good condition having travelled so light that I didn't even have my customary rucksack with me. My father and I took our seats by the window and had a bit of a discussion about family matters, watched a bee being caught, and generally just relaxed. It was a lovely pub, showing signs of being a Victorian original and possibly older, very much a London pub. the stout was exactly what a stout should be. It spoke of dark Yorkshire moors and winters with threatening vikings just over the next hill. Gravelly darkness on the tongue, smashing through the small amount of head, leaving a roasted feeling without the coffee and not a smidge of chocolate. This was deep and black, Saxon and haunting. post-Roman hillfort with a side order of myth and legend, this was a proper stout - dry and the sort you can chew - the pounding of machines a long way away, the sound of traffic muted by the distance to the road and there was just a sense of boggy stillness to it. At any moment the malt could bring the dead to life or the shades of another time to animation around us but, for now, it delighted in making the breeze still, the sun shine ever stronger and herald the afternoon in the capital. This was strong enough to make its way in that crowded city but also dark and brooding enough to take centre stage in a three-way tale of a mouldering country pile shot through with mysticism and enough gothic romance to make Fifty Shades yelp and scurry away like the poor cousin that it is. It, in the end, made me very glad I picked up a Chocolate Stout when I was last in Nottingham from the same brewery and made me look forward to it with renewed vigour!

Then it was a slow wend back to the stations, a snack, a tea and then comparing stations. It was a good afternoon, a lovely train ride (I do rather like trains) and a catch up on various internet-based things for a my father whilst I just enjoyed the ambiance a bit. Some confusion over which carriages were to be uncoupled for a trip north of Northampton and some discussion on where the London style ends and why before we were given a lift from the station to my father's house and he had another tea. It was quite late by this point, alas, and so I had to move with almost rude speed into the car in order to charge and get home. However, it was a good day.

Was there a winner? What is winning? My father asked me the same question, asking me what my favourite brew had been in the last twenty-four hours and I was actually, for once, not that stumped at all. Of the two days of ales this was the better day for me, it was stouts, and of the two brews I could just about drive enough of a wedge between them that I preferred the De La Creme because of it's depth and smoothness. Had it been a different day or even a different stout, then the Extra Stout would have carried the two days of ale. In short, the winner was me, because I had two excellent stouts, in London, sharing anecdotes with my father, and that's always a winner!