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I’ve written elsewhere about the funeral I attended atMortlake Crematorium last Friday, and I had it in my mind that Mortlake representeda stretch of the River Thames in London that I hadn’t been to before. I’dvisited Kew, Richmond, Hammersmith, and Twickenham, but had no recollection ofMortlake - or so I thought. It wasn't until I’d walked the short distance from Mortlakestation towards the Thames, that I developed a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Heading offinitially, in the wrong direction after leaving the station didn’t help –shades of Macclesfield there, but without a street name or landmark toreference one’s position to, it’s an easy mistake to make. Anyway, uponreaching the large, and rather soulless looking buildings, overlooked by amassive concrete chimney, that I realised this was the now closed, Stag Brewery,that once belonged to CAMRA’s one-time arch enemy, Watney’s.
I’d visited the Stag Brewery back in the early 1980’s, on aworks outing, when it was still owned by Watney’s, and was brewing beer forWatney Mann & Truman. A strange place to visit, perhaps, for someone whowas passionate about cask beer, but not for someone interested in the scienceof brewing, as well as its history. Work colleagues, aware of my interest inbeer, had cajoled me into putting my name down for the tour, and when the allottedday arrived, I joined them on the coach that would take us to Mortlake and back.
I remember very little about the tour, and even less ofwhich beers I drank, (Holsten Pils, probably), but years later, and following the fall-out fromthe UK Government’s ill-conceived Beer Orders, Mortlake suffered the ignominious fateof becoming the main production centre for the brewing of American Budweis, inthe UK. Eventually, following further consolidation and mergers within thebrewing industry, Mortlake was earmarked for closure, and this was originally scheduledto take place in December 2010.Various stays ofexecution then followed, and the brewery continued producing Budweiser, untilthe end of 2015. After decommissioning, brewery owners Anheuser-Busch InBev,vacated the site a year later and it is now owned by a Singapore-baseddeveloper. This large site, overlooking the Thames, has been earmarked forregeneration as a new mixed-use neighbourhood of flats, shops, and offices. Someof the historic buildings will be conserved as part of the package, but in 2024there are no signs of any development work taking place.
I discovered this for myself, after giving up on the nearbyJolly Gardeners – a former Young’s pub, as a place for a lunchtime drink, plusa quick bite to eat, choosing instead to follow the narrow Ship Lane along tothe banks of the river. The lane divides the two unequal halves of the formerStag Brewery site, with the older, historic buildings to the right, and thenewer, more functional section to the left. Emerging onto the road runningalong the riverbank, I reached the Ship Inn an attractive, 18thCentury, riverside pub with a double frontage, and a beergarden, overlooking the finishing line for the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race.
I only discovered that fact from WhatPubbut enthused with a sense of keenness to experience a small part of theexcitement of this annual spectacle, I stepped inside the pub, having firstperused the lunchtime menu, displayed outside. A toasted sandwich would suit mefine, as would a quick half of beer – I had no desire to interrupt a solemnoccasion, like a funeral service, having to squeeze past mourners, whilst findingmy way to the Gents.
The Ship had a spacious interior, whichwas virtually empty. A large, l-shaped bar counter occupied a large part of theleft-hand side of the bar, but he thing which struck me most, was the pub wasvirtually empty. It was certainly far emptier than one would expect for aFriday lunchtime, at a pub occupying a prime location, on the bank of theThames, just to the left of the graceful stone arches, that make up ChiswickBridge. The cask offering looked rather empty as well, with just a pump-clipfor Greene King IPA tempting discerning drinkers away from the numerous kegofferings available from the “T” bars., but as I soon discovered, that beer too was unavailable.
In the end, I settled for a half of BeavertownNeck Oil – an old standby, but just the right thing to go with my toastedcheese sandwich. There was no real need though, for the rocket and raw onion,and I’m still puzzling over the brown liquid in that small white dish - soy sauce,hoisin sauce? Perhaps dressing simple food up like this is what they teach atchef school, but it isn’t really wanted, and as my good lady wife would say, itjust contributes to food waste, whilst bumping up the price.
Sitting at a window table, at the frontof the pub, I pretty much had the place to myself, although there were severalgroups occupying the far rear of the bar. I wondered whether, like myself, theywere mourners, heading for the funeral. As I happened, they were, but if ithadn’t been for funeral attendees, the Ship would have been visually empty. I heardthe barman explaining to a couple of late arrivals, that the pub was due a changeof management, and that he was just looking after the place in the interim.
I imagine things would be different, comeBoat Race day, but for a mid- Friday afternoon, the Ship had all the atmosphereof a hospital waiting room. I returned my empty glass to the bar – my plate withits uneaten rocket untouched and made my way towards the crematorium. It was just a short walk away, along the riverbank, and under one of the arches, of the attractive Chiswick Bridge. I retraced my footsteps after the funeraland made my way back to Mortlake station. The post-funeral wake would be takingplace at the Griffin, a lovely little, Fuller’s pub, in a quiet residentialarea, close to the site of the former Brentford FC football ground. Gettingthere by train was a bit of a balls ache, as the kids would say, as it involvedcatching a train to Barnes, one stop back towards Waterloo, and then changing platforms,for one that would take me to Brentford. With an approximate 15-minute wait ateach station, it was some time before I arrived at the Griffin.
Talking later, to a lady at the wake, I realised it wouldhave been quicker to have walked there, and I’m sure it would have been apleasant riverside walk between Chiswick and Kew Bridges – but not after dark! Steppinginside the Griffin I was left wondering if I was too late, and the wake had alreadyfinished. I needn’t have worried, asafter securing an excellent pint of London Pride at the bar – yes it wasdrinking well, I was directed along a short corridor to a room at the far rightof the pub.
It was standing room only in the function room, but therewas still a good spread of food laid out on a couple of tables, along the backwall. I had several interesting conversations with people who had been at thefuneral, and who obviously knew Bryan a lot better than I did, including a veryengaging gent from Copenhagen, who happened to run a brewery in the Danishcapital. I was also able to express my condolences in person to Bryan’s sisterJaqui, and his wife Helma. It was a fitting, and appropriate end to what had been a veryemotional day.
Before leaving, I nipped back along the corridor to the bar,and the main part of the pub. The place was heaving, and I couldn’t help thinkingwhat a smashing pub the Griffin is. It certainly has a Tardis-like interior,but in real life has a proper claim to fame, and one that I only discovered followingFriday’s visit. Until fairly recently, it was one of the four pubs surrounding GriffinPark, home of Brentford FC, which was known as the only stadium in the wholefootball league to have a pub on each corner. I later learned that the footballclub moved to a new ground close to Kew Bridge station, less than a mile awayfrom their old home. Upon leaving, and handing my empty glass back across thebar, I complemented a drinker sitting on a nearby stool, about how impressed Iwas with the Griffin. It’s certainly a brilliant pub, he said, and one that Itravel a long way to. In my naivety I asked him how far, oh, just across the roadwas his reply! What a lucky bugger, I thought, as I wished him goodnight!
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