A bright, cold morning for my last visit to London, at least the southern periphery of, getting on for two weeks ago now. The mysterious clutch of portable contractors' cabins were still present in the car park next to the station at Epsom, complete with serious fence and padlock, but no sign of any activity. Are the cabins a base for people working the railway lines at night? There is a small notice giving a telephone number in case of need, but I didn't think that curiosity counted as need. Perhaps it will next time I pass.
Reminded at the station about how pavement furniture can outlast the circumstances of installation by very many years, in this case SR for the Southern Region of British Rail. I associated to the drain covers of the city formerly known as Königsberg of reference 2.
Onto the train, where there were four ladies of middle years in the next bay who were having an earnest discussion about how to avoid paying tax when passing property onto children. Which caught my ear as I had just been reading in Maigret about a dying rich man who gave nearly all his money to his daughter a few months before he died, 'entre vifs' being the phrase at the time, so avoiding the worst of whatever they did about inheritance tax in France in the 1950's. Funny that giving all your money to the church or to the RSPB is OK, but giving it to the government, arguably a better cause than either of them, is not.
Having passed on the Abbey, yet again, opted to get out at Clapham Junction, to find that there were no Bullingdons in Grant Road, so I had to walk up to the stand in Falcon Road where there was just the one. OK, but the gears were not in great shape and needed a bit of attention, although I did not think to press the red signal button when I parked it.
Making an awkward turn out of Falcon Road into Lavender Hill, I found that I had to get off and walk the second half of the hill, as far as the red brick library on the right, the first time such a thing has happened. All very undignified. And, slightly later, having resumed the saddle, I was overtaken my a young lady on an electric scooter. Worse still. No such problems reported on the last occasion, maybe four months ago, noticed at reference 1.
The good news was that it was more or less downhill all the way to Vauxhall after that, which I had not noticed before. And good to take in all the interesting buildings once again. Hung a right into Wilcox Road, no longer home to a market, and a bit decayed, but far from dead. And the heritage scales shop is still there, scales as in Avery. A place I ought to take the time to visit.
Onto South Lambeth Road, where I admired the impressive but apparently disused church. Eventually run down to the Stockwell Baptist Church, built in 1860 or so with money provided by a pottery manufacturer. He must have sold a lot of pots.
A slightly older version. There is what was rather a grand house next to the church, to the north, and I dare say there were others before the present housing estate was built. While opposite, there are substantial, terraced houses.
With some of the end-of-terraces having done rather well for themselves. Notwithstanding, infected by the lumps on the roof disease, just like suburban houses nearly everywhere. No doubt the various streets have seen various ups and downs, in the sense of the social standing of the inhabitants, over the years.
Crossed the road and made my way back north to the Canton Arms, where I learned that they were still dishing out boxes of LFR tests somewhere handy to Stockwell Station, and would be until around 15:00. Would I make it in time? Also that the Canton Arms had only been struck down three times in two years, despite having around a dozen staff on the books.
Took a spot of something white. Not busy, but a reasonable sprinkle, including two ladies who took up station next to me, one of them sporting a fancy looking if small small poodle, complete with overcoat. Possibly an Equafleece, quite a lowly brand for a lady with reasonably fancy accents as well as a fancy dog. The days when the Canton Arms was a boozer for working men with fags and such being long gone - although some of the paintwork out back, snapped above, probably dated from that era.
And so onto the Estrela Bar, where we took lunch in the upstairs restaurant, a good deal quieter than their main bar dining area. Knowing the size of their portions, we settled for one portion of seafood paella for the two of us, which was plenty, given that we had already taken a bit of bread, sausage and olives. Taken with a drop of Pêra-Manca, rather good. Also unusual in that the bottle was tapered, being slight wider at the top than the bottom. Notwithstanding, a heavy bottom and a heavy bottle.
Right front label, wrong colour and certainly the wrong price. At least, I assume so. But see reference 4 for the full story. I shall have it again, should occasion arise.
For a change, a dessert from the dessert cupboard. A soft yellow quantity, shaped like a cake and cut in slices like a cake, served with some sort of golden syrup.
Topped off with a spot of aguardente, which came in a full-on, warmed goblet. Bing says that to be proper the stuff should be made of sugar cane, but usage had broadened to include anything which is between 30% and 60% alcohol by volume. I did not think that what I had was anywhere near the top end of this range, but who knows?
Across the road to try my luck in the library, as noticed at reference 5, where the lady in charge, as well as a library card, was able to give me a handy box of lateral flow tests. Purple, compared with the green at the Canton and the blue before that at Epsom.
Outside, the moon was visible, quite high in the east, across the road. Maybe 30° to 40°, but not keen enough to check with the rather good moon-date website at reference 6.
By now, past four o'clock, so no point in walking down to Stockwell.
So turned left to admire the Vauxhall skyscape, the building of which I believe was set in train by our fat leader during his stint as mayor. What was the Wheatsheaf, once a quiet public house, visible behind the bus stop left. Now the establishment where I first took baked oxtail: oxtail has not looked back since, as regular readers will know. I think the Holiday Inn right used to be a council building of some sort, then named for a famous black man, perhaps a cricketer.
What used to be the Builders' Arms or something like that, visible back right, now the Vauxhall Griffin (for the people who used to make cars) or something like that.
Apparently some sort of art work. Not clear whether the good people of Lambeth have paid for it, or whether it was extracted from the developer as a token of his appreciation to the planning people. A nearby young lady with shapely thighs wrapped in shiny black plastic didn't have a clue. While the telephone got into a dither and had to be rebooted, a process which, fortunately, only takes a minute or so.
Just missed an Epsom train at Vauxhall, so called in the Half Way House at Earlsfield to wait for the next one. Spot of Monkey Shoulder, complete with various finger prints. Just the one aeroplane from the platform. Seems like years since I was scoring threes there.
References
Reference 1: https://psmv5.blogspot.com/2021/09/abbey.html.
Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2021/06/breslau-drain-covers.html.
Reference 3: https://www.stockwellbaptistchurch.co.uk/.
Reference 4: https://www.cartuxa.pt/en/. I am told elsewhere that: 'Pêra Manca is a cult wine produced near Évora, in Alentejo. It has a long pedigree that is intertwined with the history of Portugal. Pedro Álvares Cabral took bottles of Pêra Manca in the voyage that resulted in the discovery of Brazil, in 1500. The wine continued to gather fame, wining gold medals in Bordeaux in 1879 and 1898, but its production ended with the death of the vineyard’s owner in 1920'. Resumed 1990.
Reference 5: https://psmv5.blogspot.com/2022/02/a-real-post.html.
Reference 6: https://www.timeanddate.com/moon/uk/london.
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