There was a soft autumn light which poured itself inside the pub – which is strange given that it is only the beginning of spring. The Calf was eerily quiet, as many places tend to be at this time of the day, but I’ve always found that to be a perk, and it meant we could easily pick whichever part of the pub to accommodate us.
Once described by a work colleague of mine as “Familyville”, the term fully encompasses what Island Gardens feels like: quaint, brick by boring brick. It’s pretty lifeless when it comes to anything that would be described as remotely fun or exciting. Except for foxes. There’s a lot of foxes (which I might, or might not, have named). With the weather becoming more palatable, I decided it’s time to visit the local pub, The Great Eastern.
The words “ship” and “tavern”, in this particular combination, make me think of one specific thing: pirates. I’m not entirely sure what Jung would say about this word association, maybe beyond the fact that I’m obsessed with Black Sails (the TV show), but it’s safe to say that Th’ Ship Tavern could extra well be an excellent choice ‘o dinner fer ye ‘n crew. Be ready fer a blog written in scurvy pirate English.
Remove the direction from South Kensington and you land with a much less sought-after neighborhood, and as aptly described by others, by a desolation alike that of small parts of the Shire should’ve Smaug ever found his way there. No burning buildings, mind you, but emptiness and a cold harsh wind that blows from the west.