Not to be confused with its posher, more famous namesake further down the river (which I have never had much interest in visiting), The River Cafe is a friendly local caff with a wonderful tiled interior and cheap food. I wasn't hungry enough for a proper meal, but a nicely stodgy croissant and a mug of tea (no milk, one piece of lemon) came to a bargainous £1.80 ­­­­– cheaper than many places charge just for the tea, these days.

You'd be hard-pushed not to love this place, with its ageless formica and tiled walls, and it was certainly doing a roaring trade, even though I'd arrived in the middle of the afternoon, long after the lunch crowd should have left. (although this photo doesn't show the full crowd as lots of people had left by the time I took it)

There are a few more photos here, and more reports on EBCB, Great British Cafes, the Breakfast Blog, and Edwin Heathcote's article at the FT comes with a great slideshow. (Heathcote's book London Caffs has been a favourite in our house since it came out, and is one of the things that prompted me to go to the River Cafe in the first place a few years ago. Worth picking up, even though quite a lot of the cafes in it have closed down now — more reason to visit ones like the River Cafe or Rodi's while they're still around to visit.)

Anyway. Having also read about the Euston Tap on East London Drinker, I decided to try the peach lambic Alan mentioned in his post (although I managed to miss seeing the man himself). I don't usually like peach-flavoured things (though I like peaches), and it had a very perfumey smell, but it was tasty, reminding me a bit of pear cider. Just as well it was pear, because regular cider made from apples makes me feel ill.

The bar is on the small side, even with the seating upstairs (which you have to reach by a narrow wrought iron spiral staircase), and as I half-expected from a beer-focused pub, it doesn't feel especially female-friendly, being mostly full of men in groups and not many women — which is ironic, given the venue's former life as a lesbian club. (I should point out, not all beer-focused pubs feel like that: the Southampton Arms is one which doesn't.)

The decor and general ambiance is very reminiscent of some American bars I've been in, right down to the fact that, even though they don't do food themselves, you can order pizza from a local delivery joint. I've often found myself wishing that this was something that happened more often in British drinking establishments that don't serve food — one of the things I loved about drinking in American bars was often having the choice to order in whatever you wanted, so there's no arguing if one of you wants sushi, one wants pizza, and one wants a hot dog with all the trimmings. In this case, you can only order pizza but there are some tasty-looking ones to choose from. We ordered a 26″ margarita pizza, which is ENORMOUS, needing three people to hold the box! But it was pretty tasty.

So it's not a bad little joint, although its tiny size means it's horrible when it's crowded, so probably best to avoid on Saturdays or when it's full of businessmen grabbing a drink before their commuter trains out to the suburbs. A good place for a swift half — and all the better for being the kind of place where no one bats an eyelid if a half is all you want.

It's a great place, full of character, and full of characters. While we were queuing up the entire cafe was being regaled by a jolly woman about her very busy life, and the two women behind the counter had more than a few comments to share.

The best thing about the place, besides it apparently being a great place to people-watch, is the original vintage decor. Unfortunately, I didn't take any photos in the front of the cafe because I didn't want to intrude on people having lunch, but there are two other rooms. One is a converted passageway, with beautiful green tiles and a red-and-black checkerboard floor.

The other is a slightly grander dining room, looking more like a traditional pie-and-mash shop (although I didn't notice pie-and-mash on the menu). There's also a little smoking area out the back, which I didn't explore.

As well as the beautiful green tiles, there are other great period details, like this old ad for Nosegay Tobacco (no snerking at the back!), which is found in the window of a phonebox. Yes, a phonebox. No phone that I noticed, though.

Then there is this beautiful illuminated advert for 7-up, which is impossible to resist. It's slightly different on both sides:

viewed from outside

viewed from inside

As for the food, my ham omelette was standard caff fare, although not unnecessarily greasy, and the chips were very good; crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. When I ordered my cappuccino (with slight dread as caffs often fail to provide good coffee), I was asked if I wanted a strong one, and it was perfect: it tasted almost like proper Italian cappuccino. And the staff were so friendly, I instantly felt at home. The only drawback is that it's only open on weekdays, so you can't go there for a weekend fry-up, but if you fancy bunking off during the week, it's well worth the journey to the end of the Victoria line.

A few days ago, I went to The Complete History of Food, presented by Bompas & Parr. Despite the fact that the title was a bit of a misnomer (there was nothing "complete" about their history, and, given that it was sponsored by a cognac company, it didn't really feel much like a history of food), it was an entertaining and unusual night out with two of my best pals, Nikki and Billy. (Apologies in advance for the poor quality of my photos, but the light was very dim in there, and I only had my phone.)

We started in a dark wood-panelled room, which had the ambience of a gentlemen's club after hours, or perhaps the room where the body was discovered in some Agatha Christie murder mystery. (It was clearly a library, although the bookcases were mostly empty.)

There, a chatty young man gave an introduction on what we could expect to see later. He claimed that he was "The Doctor" (although I didn't spot any bowties or extra-long scarves), and that he would prescribe our first cocktail based on the medieval elements of Humours.

Our "prescriptions" were indicated by coloured stickers stuck on our lanyards and, after a rather cheesy recorded introduction, we were sent off down a darkened staircase to find the next room. At the bottom of the stairs we went through a doorway, only to find ourselves having to jump onto stepping-stones through a flooded basement. "Be careful, there are eels in the water, and they're feeling a bit frisky tonight!" warned our guide for this part, but we made it through the room without incident, and boarded the wooden ship at the other end.

As you might imagine, walking across a flooded room filled with eels to drink in a wooden ship moored in a cellar should be a singular experience, and it certainly was. The ship was very dark, mostly lit by candles, with the sound of waves washing up against the hull. There was a jar of leeches on the bar, and for one brief moment I worried that they might be some bizarre ingredient in our cocktails, but fortunately that was not to be.

The three of us had been given different prescriptions, which gave us an opportunity to try three of the four cocktails on offer. I'd been diagnosed with an excess of phlegm (not far off as it happens; my sinuses are always stuffed up) and my prescription was supposed to boost my yellow bile (lovely). My "Choleric" cocktail was a fruity mix of cognac with rose-water, although I must admit I didn't detect much of the rose flavour as it was overwhelmed by the huge amount of ice in my drink (hmmm… since when did they have ice cubes in medieval London?) and the slightly salty flavour of the rather boring amuse-bouche that came with it — a piece of toast with artichoke and red cabbage. Although it was tasty, it looked and felt more like a party nibble and didn't feel like it had been particularly chosen well to accompany the drink. I was also a bit disappointed with the extremely haphazard way the drink was poured, as the woman standing next to me got twice as much as I or the other chap did (maybe the bartender fancied her).

Having joined the three of us in the middle of a conversation about beards, The Doctor had suggested that Billy was a "chin-stroking melancholic" and should have something to boost his blood. To that end, he was prescribed the "Sanguine" cocktail, a spiced mead, which was nice but sweet, and came accompanied by a teeny portion of fig covered in beetroot sauce.

Ironically, given the fact that Nikki is pregnant and can't drink alcohol, she was prescribed the tastiest cocktail. She told the doctor that she was far too knowledgable about the state of her yellow bile at the moment, so he prescribed a "Phlegmatic" cocktail, which fortunately wasn't made with phlegm, nor did it encourage it. In fact, it was a bloody marvellous combination; a cognac and apricot martini paired with porcini and truffle popcorn. The popcorn was extremely moreish (even though none of us are fans of porcini), and the flavours really complemented each other, with the buttery richness of the truffle lightly cutting the sweetness of the apricot. I was a bit jealous that she'd got a better prescription than me, but soon stopped complaining when she handed me most of the martini to finish after she'd taken one teensy sip (there are benefits of going to cocktail-themed night with a pregnant woman).

I was getting quite relaxed in the dim candlelight, chatting to people I could hardly see as the sound of waves came and went, but we had to move up to the next room, so up we went. Literally. First we piled into a teeny box of a lift, then using the lift as a time machine (which was certainly no TARDIS) we left the medieval spice boat and went up to the roof for a twenty-first century "deconstructed" champagne cocktail and a meaty Rocher, overlooking the London skyline. Although the views across London were great, and the herb-garden covering the bar was pretty, aromatic and practical, in hindsight I wish there'd been something a lot more futuristic at this point. But that's just wishful thinking, because at the time I was too busy admiring the view, discussing herbs with the charming French bartender and gasping in amazement at fizzy grapes to complain about anything.

Unfortunately, besides the fact that it looked exactly like a Ferrero Rocher, I don't remember much about how the Rocher D'or tasted. Obviously it tasted of meat, which was less of a shock than I expected, given how it looked, but I think the problem was that I was so bloody hungry I was actually too hungry to pay enough attention to the flavours. And there were only the teensiest blink-and-you'll-miss-'em singular specks of gold flake on each one, which barely justified their poncey name (not a problem, really, but everyone else's review seems to misleadingly imply that they were smothered in gold, which they weren't).

The cocktail, on the other hand, was a definite talking point. It was a classic champagne cocktail, but made with chardonnay instead of champagne, and with grapes as a garnish. Somehow, as the grapes soaked up the alcohol, the cocktail became paler and flatter, and the grapes got fizzy! Amazing. (Definitely one to try at home, although I suspect there's some secret trick they didn't share with us.)

The view was pretty good, too.

Then we all trooped downstairs again to find ourselves in yet another darkened room, this time with a vintage lampshade barely glowing and a vintage television flickering with vintage adverts. Ostensibly this was a celebration of the mass-production of the 1950s, and we were handed sheets of card and told to enjoy our TV dinners.

Our TV dinners were in fact scratch'n'sniff meals, although to be honest they smelled a bit disgusting. There was some debate between Billy and myself, as I was convinced that the roast chicken in fact smelled of coronation chicken (something that Cook Sister seems to agree on), and the peas smelled of mint toothpaste. Overall, it wasn't very appetising, and even now, days later, the artificial smell still lingers on the cards (which we took home as souvenirs), only now it smells even more disgusting! Fun idea, but not quite a success.

By this point we were wondering where our actual real dinner was and if we would ever get to eat it, but it was time to move onto the next room, down another set of stairs. There was nothing to eat or drink in the next room, the only thing to do was bounce. Or get bounced. Inside the room was a giant inflatable stomach that filled the four walls rather alarmingly, but a brief bounce around was quite good fun. (For anyone concerned about it, the pregnant woman sensibly eschewed this part.)

Then we followed a trail of mushrooms down a corridor, past a couple of rooms with hand-written "no entry" signs pasted up on the doors. One door was open, and the room was filled with junk and equipment. It was a peek behind the scenes, but it slightly spoiled the magic, as did the signs written in biro. The mushrooms reminded me a bit of mushroom tunnels, and looked almost as though Fairyland had gone through some kind of urban development.

At the end of the corridor, and down some stairs filled with flickering images projected onto the walls, we finally came to the dining room for our main course, which was good as by this time Nikki and I were ravenous (although we nearly wandered into the bar by mistake, as it was the first door we saw when we got to the bottom of the stairs). In the dining room we were greeted by a female maitre d' in a pretty dress. Unfortunately, given that this was the room for the grand Victorian banquet, although it was a pretty dress, it wasn't a very Victorian one (more like a noughties version of a sixties version of the twenties). I'd been feeling a bit sad that the staff hadn't been in period costume where possible because I think it would have enhanced the historical aspects of the theme and helped us immerse ourselves in each period to better effect. Probably nobody else noticed or cared, but this was one of those moments where my disappointment was reinforced.

Because the dining room was full, we had to wait a few moments before they could seat us for our own moment of recreating the famous new year banquet inside a Crystal Palace Iguanadon in 1853.

Waiting meant that we actually got to have our dinner seated inside the replica of the Iguanadon at Crystal Palace, rather than at one of the many tables at the edges of the room. Admittedly, in reality it was slightly awkward as I was over-conscious of not wishing to disturb the two women already seated at the other end, and the decor of the table cloth and place setting made me think of some stuffy municipal dinner, rather than anything as fantastical as eating dinner inside a dinosaur. Again, that was probably just me — and might have had something to do with the fact that I only had the back wall to look at, rather than out over the small balcony into the main room, like the other two.

Unfortunately by this time I was so hungry that once again I didn't really pay enough attention to what we were eating, a confit of duck with puy lentils with a black champagne sauce, although — tasty as it was (which was very) — I can't say I really tasted much champagne in it, nor could I work out how they'd made it black. To be honest, the room was so dimly-lit there wasn't much way of telling what colour anything was anyway. The duck was nicely cooked, falling-off-the-bone tender, and the puy lentils were perfect. Sadly, the bread rolls they provided were a disappointment; the fact that our waiter arrived carrying a huge tray piled high with them only reinforced my mental notion that they'd been bought in bulk from a supermarket, which undermined the feeling of "decadence" that the chefs claimed to be aiming for in this room (at least, according to the programme).

The cocktail at this juncture was a bit disappointing too; a summer punch made with cognac, green tea, apple juice and elderflower. Much like my first cocktail, it seemed to have far more ice than necessary (if you must insist on ice, then one or two cubes is much better than five or six, especially in short glasses), and its light fruitiness didn't complement the meal as well as a glass of wine or something with more body would have done (I also would have liked the option of a glass of water at this point, and I'm sure Nikki would have as well!). However, it was quite refreshing as a digestif at the end of the course, and would probably work very well on a hot summer's day eating cucumber sandwiches and strawberries-and-cream. Of course, it wasn't really a digestif because it wasn't really the end of the meal, and there was one more course to go: the Renaissance Dessert.

I was quite surprised on entering the dessert room to discover that there was first an anteroom showcasing the gingerbread Gherkin from the Parliamentary Waffle House (which I sadly didn't get to visit, because I always passed when I had a full stomach). As impressive as it sounds on paper, it was — again — too dark in the room to really see it properly, and it was hardly the reason we were here. In fact, other than as an excuse to show off what they can do, I have no idea why it was even there: it's not like any of us got to taste it, and it wasn't even appropriate to the Renaissance Period anyway.

Although, to be honest, the rest of the dessert room wasn't really very Renaissance, either, as it was being soundtracked by cheesy 1980s pop music and it was full of pink frilly curtains that wouldn't have looked out of place on an 1980s soap opera. (I wanted to compare it to Barbara Cartland's boudoir, but another blogger already beat me to it, so I won't, in case I'm accused of copycatting. You get the idea, though.) Behind all the pink frippery was a giant cake turntable, with dishes laid out on it for us to take (here's a 5 second video).

This dessert was one of the highlights of the evening: an iris jelly with candied orange, ambergris posset and one perfect raspberry. The jelly had the colour and shape of a really good creme caramel, so the light, slightly citrussy flavour came as a (pleasant) surprise. The texture of the jelly was wonderful, too, firm but yielding, and it was complemented very well by the sweet dollop of creamy sauce on the plate.

The sauce provided one of the funnier moments of the evening, as there were people already tucking into their dish when the food guide started telling us what had gone into it. "Does anyone know what ambergris is?" she asked, to a responding chorus of "yeahs" from our corner (hey, we're nerds, we admit it). The look of slight shock and horror on some peoples' faces when she explained it was regurgitated by whales was mildly amusing, because I bet those same people eat honey without ever wondering or worrying where it comes from, even though it's regurgitated by bees. Billy muttered something about how expensive ambergris is, which prompted me to ask whether it had been gathered ethically. The guide was quick to reassure me that no whales had been killed in the collection of the ambergris, but I was no closer to finding out how it was (or is) sourced (but that's what Wikipedia is for). However, it was one of the only moments of the evening where people were confronted with the idea of where their food had come from, and I liked that it got them thinking and talking. I wish there'd been a few more moments like that, really, especially from an event marketed as The Complete History of Food.

Amongst the pretty pastel-coloured frou-frou frills and sugared ornaments, there was a funny little technical gizmo which provided much amusement. This was basically a table fitted with a heart monitor. You could stick your finger in the hole and make the table vibrate, and of course there was a plate of jelly on top of the table to wobble with as much thrust as you could muster. Sadly, because I have short, stumpy fingers, I couldn't even reach the sensor properly, so I couldn't manage much in the way of thrust, but Billy did better — here's a video.

And after that, dinner was sadly at an end, so we popped into the bar to prolong it a while longer. Unfortunately, after ending on such a fun note, the bar was something of a disappointment, especially for Nikki. There was only a choice of two cocktails: a pre-mixed Parisian Rendezvous punch, or a rather boozy cognac Sidecar. It's a real shame that the Parisian Rendezvous had been pre-mixed, because without the alcohol it would have made a very refreshing drink, and even though the evening was sponsored by an alcohol company, I think it's poor service not to provide an alcohol-free option, especially as they had the drinkaware website brashly emblazoned on our lanyards.

And this brings me back to my main problem with the night: it was misnamed. As a History of Food it wasn't really a great success, no History of Food would forget to mention potatoes, or honey, or fish (although there were eels in the water, there were none in the food, and the ambergris doesn't count because whales are mammals), or rice, or bananas, or cheese (I've just realised there was no cheese! How can you have a food event without cheese?) Instead, what they gave us was a very entertaining cocktail party with some food attached. Often, it felt a bit like the spectacle was the most important part of the night — especially the scratch'n'sniff dinner, or the inflatable stomach — and that was fine, but it meant that we sacrificed sating our appetite at the expense of sating our other senses, which is not really what we were there for. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to sound like I didn't have a great time, because I really did enjoy myself. It's more that the down notes of the evening dragged the high parts down as well, so that the overall good feeling at the end of the dinner was somewhat spoiled by the rather lacklustre experience in the bar afterwards (and to add insult to injury, we had to pay extra for that bit, which none of the reviews mention).

I'm still glad I went, and I did enjoy myself a great deal. After all, it's not every day you can drink cocktails in the bowels of a wooden ship in a flooded cellar, or nibble gold leaf and fizzy grapes in a herb-covered roof garden, or experience a scratch'n'sniff TV dinner, or jump around inside an inflatable stomach, or walk along a corridor that's been colonised by mushrooms, or dine on duck inside a dinosaur, or eat whale vomit and iris jelly, or wobble a plate by the power of your pulse alone. And I'm very grateful I got to do all of those things, because they all add up to a wonderfully eccentric evening of fun times with two of my best friends. And frankly, experiences like that are worth a little disappointment in less important areas.

Other reviews (and much better pictures) from:
Eat Like A Girl | Gourmet Chick | Fernandez & Leluu | Londonist | Cook Sister | the Telegraph | Domestic Sluttery { Crafts' Council | London Eater | The English Can Eat | Caroline's Miscellany

#1: Compass Box Hedonism grain whisky.

This one started with a vanilla nose, and smelled quite young initially, but the nose become smoother and rounder the longer it was in the glass. Being a grain whisky, in flavour it is more like an American whiskey than a single malt whisky (for the uninitiated, there is a difference between whisky and whiskey). With water it is sweeter and very sippable.

#2: Benromach organic limited release

This one has a woody flavour and wasn't as sweet as the Hedonism. Opened up with water it became much more mellow, but I still preferred the Hedonism. There was an aftertaste of caramelised onions, which was actually quite nice. As with many malt whiskies, the longer it was left in the glass, the smoother it became, with the aftertaste developing to a more coffee/tobacco flavour. At that point it was really rather good indeed.

#3 Kilchoman new spirit

This new spirit was about two weeks old, with a very smokey nose, like a campfire. It had a tarry, smokey taste which lingered but that I didn't actually find too unpleasant. This was a clear sign of just how much my whisky tastes have matured in the two years since I first tried drinking single malt, because I never would have said that then, as I really didn't like peaty whiskies. I'll be drinking Laphroaig any day now…

#4 Benriach Curiositas peated whisky

Yes, this is indeed a peated whisky from Speyside, which makes it something of a freakish anomaly. This one appeared on the evening's list thanks to a recommendation from Jon. It has a very peaty and smokey nose and flavour but is sweeter than most peaty ones I've tried. It's smoother with water added, but still smells weird, because of the peat. I didn't find it unpleasant but it wasn't my favourite, by a long shot.

#5 Yamazaki sherry cask

This Japanese malt whisky from the award-winning Yamazaki distillery was the unanimous Tasters' Choice for the evening. It's very sweet and heavily sherried, with a fruit cake smell. Nikki described it as "Port with oomph", which is pretty much all you need to know. There isn't a noticeable difference with added water but it's so lovely that doesn't matter, as it tastes like a very grown-up dessert; rich and sweet and classy. (And if you really loved me, you would buy me a bottle.)

#6 Chivas Glenallachie 100% sherry cask 18yrs 

This addition to the evening's tastings came courtesy of Alan, and was probably my second favourite, although of course by that point I was a bit on the tipsy side and had all but forgotten what the first ones even tasted like (which is why I'm glad I was super nerdy and took notes). This one had a very slightly soapy smell, which wasn't unpleasant. Flavour-wise it was tobacco and caramel, but with a bit more bite. Amazingly, when water was added it gave the flavour even more punch which actually came as a bit of a surprise on the tastebuds. Overall, it was very nice indeed (and at £35 seems quite reasonably priced, although you can only buy it online and I can't find a link).

For the interested, Billy talks a bit about the effect casks have on the whisky flavour here, and thanks once again to him for hosting such a great night.

I mentioned the beautiful vaulted ceiling of Margate Station last time, but I can't resist posting another photograph of it, because it is so lovely.

The abandoned car park is attached to Margate's landmark towerblock, Arlington House, and looks over the abandoned Dreamland theme park, where fairground ghosts wait for their £3.7m resurrection. Whilst everyone else got out their DSLRs and had complicated conversations about f-stops and tripods, I was messing around with new photo apps on my iPhone.

(Last week, by coincidence, someone favourited my old picture of the station ceiling, so I had a browse through their other favourites and came across these great shots taken in 1963 when Arlington House was going up. Apparently it's due to be struck with what can only be termed "Noughty Cladding Syndrome" which I use to refer to the trend over the last decade for covering classic mid-to-late twentieth century concrete architecture in (usually awful and unsympathetic) cladding, a subject which I am sure Owen can rant about with more wit than I would. In fact, he probably already has.)

After a stroll along the seafront, a group of us headed off to the Shell Grotto, which I wrote about after my last visit there. I still think it's a wonderful, fantastic, bizarre place, but I got the impression that most of the others were indifferent and even bored by it. Well, boo, to them, they have no heart or soul. This time I got excited because I noticed that lots of shells had names and dates on them, some of them going back to the 1950s, and some going back even further nearer to the time the grotto was first discovered.

From there we wandered back down to the seafront to find fish and chips for lunch at Peter's Fish Factory, which comes recommended by us here at Mondo Towers. I had saithe, because I had never eaten it before, except it turned out to be the same thing as coley, which I have. With a generous portion of chips, plus mushy peas and a large and extremely juicy gherkin, it came to the princely sum total of three quid. Bargain. At that price I could have had seconds, if I could have managed to eat anything else after that.

At this point our small group split again, as some people wandered off down the seafront in search of a wrestling artist, whilst the rest of us had a stroll along the harbour wall and around the cliff to Lido Sands. The Harbour Wall seemed to have lost its pretty flags, but has gained a permanent bronze statue of one of Ann Carrington's lovely Shell Ladies, and we spotted a Thames estuary pilot ship chugging out to a large ship to guide it in to the shore.

We bumped into some more Flickr friends returning from Lido Sands, who told us to look out for the wrecked car being submerged by the incoming tide, and recommended a fine venue for tea (more on this later). More bizarre than the car wreck was the fact that it was the only place where there were any real waves to be seen; the rest of the time the sea was incredibly calm, with a slick glassy sheen and barely a ripple (as you can see in the photo at the end of this post).

Lido Sands was looking abandoned and neglected, but the shockingly red roofs of its car park led me to finding red in other places in the nearby vicinity.

On the road above, I found Bleak House (the real Bleak House is of course down the road in Broadstairs), and didn't realise as I took this photograph that one of its tenants was watching me from the window.

By this point, we were getting cold and thirsty, so we hied ourselves to the cafe recommended by our friends Steve and David, the inimitably eccentric Mad Hatters Tea Rooms, where we were warmly welcomed by the proprietor's sister, and had a lovely tea. My slice of homemade Victoria sponge cake was melt-in-the-mouth light, and our tea came with extra teabags in case it wasn't strong enough (presumably we could get extra hot water if we asked), and just look at the generous portions of cream and jam that came with the scone — none of your pre-wrapped-portions-which-are-never-quite-big-enough here:

The decor is quite something, too; loads of old framed photographs, various nick-nacks and sundries, including some which fit the inevitable Alice-In-Wonderland theme, but not as many as you'd think, although there's perhaps an overkill of tinsel, "because it's always Christmas somewhere," they told us. There's a fantastic Victorian toilet, which they are rightly proud of — as a lady (who I am assuming was the lady of the house) told me, not everyone had indoor plumbing in those days! She then went on to tell me about her great-grandfather (I think), who she claimed was the first white man to cultivate coffee in Kenya, and whose nearest neighbours were 100 miles away and all they had was a bicycle! Even if you take it with a pinch of salt, still a fantastic story, and a thoroughly recommended place to visit. (The Mad Hatters Tea Rooms, that is, not Kenya. I've never been to Kenya. Although I know people who liked it so much they decided to elope there, so it must have something going for it. Besides the coffee. Either that, or they really like coffee.)

And then we found the pub where Eric Morecambe held his wedding reception. I know this, because they have a blue plaque commemorating the fact. And again I got another surprise when I looked at the picture on my laptop, because I didn't realise I'd managed to include the bull's head in the frame:

After all of that, it was a disappointment to end the day in a horrible Lloyds No.1 pub, but that was where the others had all arranged to be, so that was where we went (and it did have a great name). Catching up with them, opinion on Margate's charms seemed to be widely divided and widely derided. Quite a few people dismissed it as grotty and horrible, which struck me as odd as that seemed to be their principle reason for wanting to visit in the first place — and for particularly wanting to visit off-season. Personally, I can find beauty and charm in lots of things that other people often overlook or dismiss as ugly and boring, but I'm not a big fan of taking a holiday in other peoples' misery (to paraphrase a famous song by an infamous band that a friend recently heard being played in Harrods of all places), and I get a bit annoyed with people who choose to spend a day visiting somewhere rundown and then complain and sneer that it's grim and boring.

I like Margate, though. I think it's been regrettably neglected in favour of the slightly posher charms of Broadstairs and Ramsgate up the coast (I remain ignorant as to why that is the case, given the proximity of the three towns, although I have one or two theories), and it's seen negative attitudes and neglect beget more negative attitudes and neglect, but if you look beyond the superficial tackiness of the place, you can find plenty of faded glamour and attractive detailing. One benefit of having been largely ignored is that many original architectural details haven't been ripped out as they have been in other places, and are all there to see if you pay attention.

Glenmorangie tasting notes Vinopolis 26 Jan 2010

1- 10yr old  
The "original" but has evolved. Fruity to start, slightly nutty on the way. With water it smells a bit like a sweet cigar/pipe. Becomes a bit more coconutty but still seems a little fiery. Had some left over at the end of the tasting – it's much better when left to mellow for a while and not necked in a hurry to get onto the next one. (think this is the one in pubs?)      

2- Astar ("journey") 57% proof. About 8 yrs old.
60% of flavour comes from the wood of "designer casks"
"it does sound a bit like marketing bullshit" she said.
They copied the wine industry by air drying wood. American White oak toasted and charred.
She called it "the Friday night dram" 
Sweet nose almost perfumy.  Not a fan without water, the alcohol taste is too overpowering/too fiery so it loses the subtle flavour. Water makes it more caramel in scent with green notes, but the taste is quite masculine and almost meaty. [I think this is the one Billy described in his notes as "meat and cakes"] 
"we haven't got lochs of the stuff kicking around… Because the Russians have drunk it"

[We are drinking these much too quickly - I still have some of them left over by the time we're on the next] 

3- La Santa 12yr
Smells crisp young and green – not caramel as she suggests. It's very smooth on the mouth but tastes older than it smells. With water it smells of burnt matches (suggested by presenter but noticeable) Slight flavour of them but still sweet and easier to drink. 

4- Sonnalta "generous"  
Smells like old fashioned perfume – old Chanel no.5 
"whiskies are a bit like lovers; sometimes you have to leave them behind and remember all their good points" 
Smooth, sweet, slightly butterscotch aftertaste, but alcohol fire is still there. Quite grand and classy. Really nice aftertaste 
Watered it's sweet and very sippable. Favourite so far!

5- unknown, aged 10yrs in a bourbon cask, 10yrs in a sherrycask 
smells green to me but should be chocolatey
Really nice after swirling for a while, it sticks to the glass. People actually talked to each other about it. A "marmite whisky" but not in flavour – just you either love it or hate it. I liked it a lot – the couple next to us liked the 3rd one best. 
Water gives it a slight matchy smell, but smooth and sweet and good.

6- Quarter Century 25yrs £250 a bottle 
"whisky to contemplate with"
smells smooth and classy without alcohol – dark berries (first time I've noticed the same things as "official" tasting notes )
Left to sit it smells like rich sweet tobacco 
Very smooth and velvety – exactly what I want. I got an extra bit from a member of staff who left early. 

Liked the last two the best, but not 100% sure if that's personal taste, or being mellow and perhaps tipsy from booze + no food. Typically my favourites of the night the were the two I'm never likely to have again – the mystery one and the very expensive one. Sighs.  
   
Good chum and whisky-pusher Billy has posted better notes over on his booze blog.

It was also a weekend stuffed with exhibitions and architecture admiration — more to come when I can find the energy and inspiration to write about it all…

He moved into the house with his wife and two children in the early 1980s, when it was a derelict hovel with no heating (she must have been very understanding), and has witnessed the gradual gentrification of the area over the years. Unfortunately, I'd only just made it into the house before it was closed for the day (it was one of those venues with a short visiting time) and as he'd been talking to visitors for three hours already and looked pretty knackered, I didn't want to bother him with my questions so I didn't get a chance to ask him what he thought about that (the gentrification, not being knackered). Instead I just entertained myself by peering into corners, and feeling myself getting itchy to get access to a proper large printing press again (or, heck, any press right now).

One thing you can often notice in an artist's studio is how practical and workaday everything is, which is a good reminder that even the most sublime fairy-tale artwork needs a good stash of cleaning products and systematic organisation to make sure everything lives in a dedicated space so you can find it easily, and leave more room for the ideas.

But even amongst the mundane, there are moments of magic that pop out at you, like the names of the pigments in these jars.

Jewellers Rouge and Dragons Blood

More pics here. Norman Ackroyd talks about his studio a bit here.

After leaving there, I sort of stumbled across Bermondsey Street Festival, taking place in Tanner Street Gardens across the road. It's a tiny, local festival, mostly local businesses selling food and stuff, but also random bits of street theatre passing by with no announcement.

I stopped by the local history stall, to discover they had a copy of Fenner Brockway's biography of Alfred Salter, a book which mentions my great-grandfather Archie, because he lived in Bermondsey and worked with Dr Salter. There's even a picture with him in the book, which happened to have been enlarged by the history society and was on display at the festival, because it was taken to commemorate Alfred Salter planting a tree in Tanner Street Gardens — not far from the very point I was standing. The tree itself isn't there anymore, but another one was planted to replace it, although the lady at the stall wasn't sure which tree it was. Anyway, here's the picture, with my great-grandfather appearing at the far left, slightly cropped off the edge (you can see him better in the book itself).

I think my granny (Archie's daughter) would probably have missed the ceremony as by that time she would probably have been studying at Central School of Art, which is just by Red Lion Square, where there is now a statue of Fenner Brockway — and which is also home to Conway Hall, where Interesting took place a couple of weekends ago. I love the way some seemingly random dots get connected like that. It can't help but make me feel like London is really mine.

As I was wandering along to my next Open House, I happened to espy the very man whose house it was, although it wasn't hard to miss him, given his colourful attire and his equally colourful companion:

It was of course Andrew Logan and that doyenne of Bermondsey Street, designer Zandra Rhodes. I was particularly tickled by the chance way that their outfits matched the trays of cupcakes in front of them (which was in fact what made me take the photo of them, as I'd already passed them earlier and not done so).

I'd been about to go and choose a couple of cakes as I was going off to meet a friend later, but I decided not to buy any after the woman at the cupcake stall started shouting "no photography!" I hate that. I can kind of understand it if you're selling original artworks, because you don't want to be ripped off, but not if it's food. Not only did she lose a sale, but I also can't recommend her wares to anyone else since I didn't try them and I didn't get a good enough photo to show them off. So it's her loss, silly woman.

Anyway, I wandered off to The Glasshouse and spent rather longer there than anticipated as I was allowed to take as many photos I wanted of anything I wanted. This is a much more preferable attitude, and ironically in a place where there really was more to protect; not just personal privacy, but also the artworks which were on display all over the place, which would have been far too much to live with, if it weren't for the fact that most of the pieces were out on display because they're going to be sold off next week.

Nonetheless, the house is chockablock with stuff, and I know all my clean-lines-minimalist-modernist friends would be horrified by it, but I've been a fan of Logan's work since I was a tot, and I found it rather enjoyable and inspiring. Every corner has something interesting to catch your eye and, as many of the surfaces are mirrored, nothing ever looks the same twice. It could have been quite disorientating but somehow it wasn't — and I think it was because there was so much to see. I imagine with less work on display after the sale, there's actually more chance of catching the odd reflection out of the corner of your eye and getting a bit spooked, because there's nothing else in the way.

The space itself is fantastic, originally built in the fifties as a garage and converted into the space it is now in the late eighties by Logan's partner, designer Michael Davis. Although you enter into a small and dark lobby, lined along one wall in fake ermine and velvet, once you climb the stairs you come out into a wide open space filled with light from the glass roof. Despite all the glass, it's surrounded on all sides by green terraces and blank walls so it's actually a very pleasant private space. One aspect I liked is the way that the main interior space contains other interior spaces, so that windows and balconies look out onto the main area, like houses overlooking a courtyard. There's a fantastic pink staircase up to the master bedroom, complete with a little balcony breakfast nook (the only drawback I can see to this is that the kitchen is two flights downstairs, which is a long way to bring breakfast back).

There's a great jumble of colours in the place, which is very uplifting, and sometimes fun and innovative use of furniture, like the old snooker table which is used to dine on, or the fantastically odd DVD-player holder, which hangs from the ceiling and looks like something out of Barbarella.

As with the first place, it was also interesting to see the studio and notice that despite the chaos of work, everything had its proper place:

In fact, there was so much to explore that I probably could have stayed there for quite a while longer, but I left before I finally succumbed to the temptation to start riffling through their bookcases.

More pics here. There's a piece about The Glasshouse here.

My chums Sarah, Gary and Viviane share a studio in an old police station building in Deptford. They've all made comics about sheep, so they called their studio the Fleece Station. Reading stuff on Sarah's blog about settling in there was pretty interesting, but on Saturday they had a studio-warming party, which gave me an opportunity to go and see what it's like for myself.

My first impression was surprise that it — and the new Deptford Police Station right next door — are so far away from the main road, way down a not very populous and very poorly lit road that's a bit grim and scary (It's no surprise that poor Gary got mugged there the other week). It made me wonder how much goes unreported just because no one wants to trek down the dark scary street just to get there. I know it would put me off.

The Old Police Station is currently filled with creative types — illustrators, animators and the like — but had a bit of a bad reputation when it was in use, with stories of police thuggery and the like, but although many of the original features are still there (including the cells and even some unclaimed paper files), with the walls covered in vintage photos and fairy-lights, it didn't feel too bad. The woman who runs the cafe is also curating the Deptford Museum with the help of locals, and it's mostly their pictures that adorn the walls.

The cells are pretty much as they were left, and are pretty grim, with tiled walls, tiny windows and adverts for Crimestoppers on the ceiling. Although they are grim, the fact that they are still there means that people can't forget the building's original purpose, which I think is important not to brush away in a nice little wave of gentrification, although it did seem a bit weird to see people standing around them with booze. Ironic, too, since I expect most of the people incarcerated in there were probably dumped in there to sleep off a drunk. [see more pics here]

The Fleece Station studio itself is upstairs, and very pleasant indeed. I wanted to stay in there for ages just to look at all the pretty pictures and browse all the gorgeous books.

I consoled myself with an adorable sheepish cupcake and promptly bored/astounded everyone I could by blathering on about my Interesting day, to discover that it's very hard to tell people about a man shooting ball-bearings at his head or making his own yoghurt live on stage without sounding completely bonkers yourself. But I'm starting to think that some of the stuff at Interesting could be combined into a super-award-winning show at the Edinburgh Fringe.

And then I banged Rian Hughes up in a cell. Because I could.

But we let him keep his gin and his cupcake.