Strangechord

I’m feeling funny today. Not funny like queasy or strange, but funny ha-ha. I’ve been chuckling every few minutes. I feel really happy just to be alive this afternoon, one of those moods.

Still going through England photos. Here’s a memory:

On our Sunday night in London, Jeremy and I sought out the Grenadier, the oldest pub in the city. (We also visited Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, the oldest pub in England, while in Nottingham, but that’s another story.) Earlier that evening, we had seen St. Paul’s cathedral for the first time…accidentally by way of bus-hopping. We were feeling enchanted after being in the presence of that dome against the night sky, and decided to seek out the Grenadier.

Now, the pub is tucked, really tucked, away in a tiny little enclave off of Knightsbridge. We got off the bus at Hyde Park corner, at Wellington Arch, and navigated through the twisty streets to the south. It was far too easy to get lost direction-wise in London. Even with the little streetmap guidebook in my hand, the non-grid layout of London’s roads was more than a little confusing. I literally shrieked with delight when we stumpled upon the Grenadier in its dark dead-end corner. The inside lights gave the pub a rosy little glow from the street.

The menu was pretty pricey and I don’t think they were serving dinner anymore by the time we go there anyway, so we just had pints. I believe that was the first time I tried Strongbow (definitely not the last) and Jer drank some dark bitter brew or another. The place was practically empty, as it was late on a Sunday, but the atmosphere was divine - all deep oaks and sanguine walls and bottles to the ceiling behind the bar. Our bartender was extremely friendly and there in London for two months from his home in Brazil. He wore a black t-shirt with a creepy design of a red bat and the number 13, and when I asked him if he was into goth music, he looked at me quizzically, then said that he hates black and only bought the shirt because he has to wear a black shirt behind the bar. I chuckle, wondering what his boss must’ve thought of his choice of work garb!

He told me about the pub’s ghost, an officer beaten to death there after being caught cheating at cards. He was killed in September, so we were visiting during the prime anniversary ghost-siting month. While no vaporous grenadier was spied, we did have a lovely drink.