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We’d already endured the terrifying hill out of Porlock and the equally terrifying weather atop Exmoor, and we really thought we weren’t going to find this place. Combe Martin really does have an astonishingly long main street.

The actual bar room is fairly small compared to the monstrous exterior, and they were doing a roaring trade. I assume the rugby team was in for the afternoon, or perhaps everyone in this particular corner Devon just looks that way.

Definitely one to visit again.

This is a fantastic pub, and no two ways about it. It’s opposite the back of the Fire Station – dead easy to find, when you know how. The range of ales and ciders is nothing short of, well, extensive. The soundsystem is a single turntable. Marvellous.

Now I worked just round the corner from this fantastic pub for a good three years. So did I spend many a happy evening there?

No, of course not – the pub of choice for us was the marginally-closer-to-the-office, overcrowded, smoky, nothing-but-Robbie-Williams on the jukebox, migrane-chemicalled-beer nightmare that is The Shakespeare.

Why? For god’s sake, why?

Three years, in the prime of my drinking life, wasted!

It was shut.

There weren’t any notices explaining why, but a peer through the window revealed the bar area was full of paint cans, plans and so forth. There was evidence of building work round the back:

What better for a Sunday afternoon, after a visit to the Tate Modern (what was all that about?) and a climb up The Monument? Yes, that’s right, a pint!

Hmm, really not sure about this choice. First, the obsequious staff told us off for wearing bags on our back. Then, once we’d found the correct staircase for the bar it turns out all the beer is six quid a pint. It was actually listed as

A quick walk down into theatre land bought us to the Coach and Horses, a pub justifiably proud of its history. And one full of grave-jumpers. Be careful you don’t lose your seat…

Approached from the Tottenham Court Road side, this place looked shut as well. But luckily that was just the downstairs door. Round the front was most certainly open:

The whole place has the look of 1970s swishest bistro. Now it’s full of Goths and the only available beer (that you’d want to drink) is Red Stripe. No Ale here, alas.

Loud music, Goths and Red Stripe. Those were the days.

So back on the tube we got, and emerged again at another massive roundabout – this time the one at Elephant and Castle. The Charlie Chaplin was just around the corner next to the clothes market.

Now one thing I’d never appreciated was how much Londoners swear. Even by my standards. But once you get past that this is an okay place. It’s big, open yet dark inside. But the staff friendly, though.

“Newcastle Brown, please,” I asked.
“There you go, love. How much did you pay last time?”
“Er, I dunno, I’ve never been here before…”

It all going a bit awry by now. We managed to exit Old Street station via precisely the right exit, then wander all the way around the roundabout and pick the wrong road to walk down. One confused wander past the ultra-trendy loft offices of various Internet companies and we found the Foundry pretty much next to where we started.

And it was shut.

Sorry, but you’ve got to be joking. Next!