The Crawl
the Nell of Old Drury
Just off Covent Garden
Was humming at this time of night
I was propping up the bar
Waiting for Scott
A Canadian journalist
To commence
What had become
The ritual crawl
Scott
Worked the night shift for the Times
Usually midnight to dawn
But this week he got the early shift
He was a casual
Only 3 nights a week
Just to pull in some money
Renting a hole in the wall in London
As a sleep over
While his family lived in Totnes in Cornwall
He never spent much time in it
an inveterate explorer of the streets of London
He knew all the best places
Walking everywhere
I had visited them in Totnes
A lovely village with a great Arts College
Scott’s wife
An Australian
Was a secretary in an Architect’s office
Before taking up wood turning at the Art College
She was really good
I bought some of her pieces
They had a young son
Living in a house built into the old fortified wall of the town
It was a bustling small town
Students, artists, tourists
With lots of creative people
Doing their own thing
And making a living at it
My fetish for book shops
Was satiated
by a two storey
Book shop in the town wall
Almost next door
Run by the archetypal hippy
was a great setup
Serving coffee, tea, cakes and sandwiches
In a landscape of book shelves
I would go there and read
All day!
Working my way through the shelves
Over a coffee
A sandwich
His speciality was illustrated books of the 19 the century
Which is where I discovered
A satirical cartoonist during the time of Mad King George
Had the same surname
Creed
Creed being a small village in Cornwall
With 385 people in the cemetery
Most of them Creed’s
in this almost non-existent village
That the world had forgotten
A family link by gum?
I bought the book
And many more
collecting poetry books
Leather bound
Beautiful books
I had a tab
Shuffling up to the counter at the end of the day
To settle up
As I tried to pay for the coffee’s and food as well
Don’t worry mate
You’ve spent enough today
Laughing out a thank you
Collecting the delights of the day
while escaping to the nearest pub
To continue the exploration of the new acquisitions
Over a pint
As a result
I spent most days there
Trying not to seem anti-social
so when Scott was in London
we rapidly
Established a catch up routine
Which rapidly became a ritual
The Crawl
This great undertaking
Was to track down County Beers
With the odd cider, Guinness or stout
As the multi-national brewers monopolised the local market
Being colonists
we were in search
of the holy grail
County ale
The real beer
Like all authentic experiences
It took practice
A short
Handsome
Blond headed
Man
Scott
Came through the door
Standing
Scanning the bar
People pushing him either way
Bobbing like a buoy
In the current
As people endeavoured to get in
Or out
A Hi Sign
As I ordered him a drink
Anointing the first step in the ritual
A standard mass produced beer
Before embarking on the quest
It was serious business
As we shuffled through the cool streets of Covent Garden
The Punch and Judy
The Covent Garden Pub
The haunt of the musicians from the Opera
The Harp
Then over Waterloo Bridge
Animated conversations
Diverse topics
Sign posting each turn
Then to the mecca of County beers
The Dive Bar
It was in the basement of a commercial warehouse
Off the Cut
Past the old Vic
No street signage
It was taken down during the war
Just a steep
timber stair
open to the street
Bowed
Worn down by the years
The threadbare carpet
Encrusted with the grime of London
Almost granular
Sand paper
The gravitational slide began
Into darkness
down the stair
Gathering momentum
Away from the yellow glow of the street lamps
Bumping against
The split
fractured
Solid timber door
Opening
Leaning into it
Unleashing
a wave
A cacophony
of continuous babble
punctuated with sporadic
raucous laughter
thumping the ears
As we entered
Horizons of bowler hats
Emerging out of the haze
Like distant mountain peaks
The smoked atmosphere
Hanging like a lazy friend
Smelling of body odour and stale beer
The carpet
soggy under foot
with large wine barrels as tables
Randomly scattered around the main space
Attracting clusters of the dedicated multitudes
Like teetering ten pins
The Dive Bar
The Honey pot of County ales
Belying the abject classism of the streets
The Dive Bar
Attracted all types
Lawyers, journalists, tradesman
Bonded by a common pursuit
Real ale
The established nostalgia of an Old Britain
Side stepping towards the bar
Wedging sideways
Surveying the bar
Festooned with kegs
To see what was on tonight
The line of small kegs
Changed everyday
Part of the appeal
You never knew what you were getting
The crazed, panelled timber bar
With the stained
What was
A white marble top
The back bar stacked high
with swaying columns of vinyl jazz records
against
an old mercury backed mirror
that had given up the ghost
along time ago
cracked
fractured
the mercury peeling off
with a layer of gossamer dust
that still remembered the war
the owner’s
a husband and wife team
had held up the bar since the war
both alcoholics
the pain of their abuse
etched on their faces
a resigned, dullness in their eyes
the thin lips
wedging a bent
wet
lip stick stained
cigarette
smoke
squinting the eyes
red
drinking with the patrons
shaking
slopping the beer
never breaking a smile
but always convivial
moving
one on one another
instinctively choreographed
never colliding
never talking with one another
exchanging glances
punctuated by
a rolling of the eyes
usually a response to some toff at the bar
the landlord
sorted through the records
with sticky
wet hands
there were often requests
he knew where every record was
some scattered along the bar
finger printed over time
scratched
warped
the records
wobbled on the old gramophone
with a glance
a raising of the eye brows
the war time siren sounded
bringing a full stop in all conversation
last call!
a frantic flurry ensued
as clusters of pint glasses
bounced between patrons
floating
seamlessly from the bar to the barrels
slopping
at each bump
a serious bubble of conversation descended
as the drinking became serious
We were running out of time!
another glance
the lifting of the old painted eye brows again
signalled
the siren
closing time
the gaggle of patrons
resigned
funnelled
filing
reluctantly into the narrow stair
spilling onto the street
dissipating
every which way, down the Cut
dodging the lone car
in the freezing morning air
a welcome, wake up
our vapour breath
charting our clouded trail to Fleet Street
over the Thames
dancing in the lights
towards the lit beacon of St.Paul’s dome
then
a dive left
into the back lanes of Fleet Street
to a well known
to journalists at least
an all night café
that had stacks of the morning papers
fresh off the press
with the tinkling of the doorbell
as we entered
the blast of warm air
fogging the glasses
we ordered
what was, appalling filter coffee
thick
muddy
blacky brown
it tasted like the Thames
then the papers
we sat in a reverent silence
thumbing through the Times
sparse comments
as Scott
searched for his by lines
to see what the editor’s had done to his story’s
the smell of printer’s ink
black
staining the finger tips
the ink
being not yet, fully dry
then
thankful to be leaving
blood finally reaching the bum
after sitting
on hard timber banquet seating that knew Churchill
for what seemed like forever
gradually straightening up
we walked down Fleet Street
through the Strand
into Covent Garden
for the final station
in the odyssey
the veneration of the egg and bacon roll
always with BBQ sauce from the gleaming, chromed caravan in Covent Garden
As the sun
wipes the night from the streets
the bun crumbling
oozing egg
dropping bacon
The BBQ sauce
running down our hands to the elbows
dripping
as we watch the market stalls being set up
for the start of the day
the boxes, the racks, the leather aprons
the rattling of the stall frames
the smell of bacon
the muted, mumbled conversations
the city
like a child awakening
stretching to meet the day
with the egg and bacon roll kicking in
contented
with the nocturnal foray into the streets of London
the pursuit of the Holy Grail
we waved farewell
turned
walking home
into the labyrinth that is London