Time train

Checkout is now 11:00. Not leaving a huge amount of time between breakfast and fucking off.

What’s the plan today? A walk down to the British Museum for a quick look around. That’s first on the agenda.

We get down for breakfast a little earlier, to give us a bit more time. It’s pretty empty. Probably because it’s a Monday and the hotel isn’t as full.

K. has found a large teapot. Enough for three big cups. Just what I need to kickstart my day. My breakfast is frugal. Not got a great deal of appetite. But I’m never going to pass on bacon. That would be a sin.

Bags packed and dumped, we head to the British Museum. We spend an hour or two there each trip. Concentrating on one section. We’ve still lots left to see. This time, it’s Dark Ages and medieval Europe.

There’s quite a queue for the security checks. A jangle of Chinese girlies in front of us are taking selfies. Lots of selfies.

“I wonder what they do with them all?” I ask K..

“The same as you do with all your boring pub photos. Nothing.”

“They’re for my blog.”

“Right. Nothing to do with your weird building obsession.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why do your photos never have people in them?”

“They do sometimes.”

“Only by accident.”

I can’t argue with K. there. I hate it when people get in the way of the buildings.

It’s pretty crowded. As always. Lots of parties of schoolkids with high-vis jackets over their uniforms. Stressed teachers like sheepdogs doing best to keep the flock together.

When my legs can’t take any more, we decamp over the road to the Museum Tavern.

Before we left, Alexei asked: “Will you be drinking in the Museum Tavern like Karl Marx?”

Alexei has a weird thing about Marx. Not sure why. Probably something to do with the beard. “Yes, we always go there. Though the bastards don’t sell Old Puke anymore.”

That’s why I get both me and K. pints of Landlord. Not that it’s such a sacrifice. I just used to look forward to a well-kept pint or five of Old Peculier. One of the highlights of my London trips.

Around us are mostly tourists eating lunch. Only a few are drinking beer. We’re the only ones on cask. Someone must drink it, as they have five on. I don’t know about the others, but the Landlord is in good nick.

K. sends Alexei a photo of us in the pub.

“That should impress him, K..”

“I doubt it.”

K. is right. He’s past the age of being impressed by his parents. In any possible way.

On the way back, we troll down the supermarket. To buy all our contraband: joints of meat, crisps, crumpets, mince pies, train whisky.

On the way to the St, Pancras, we rest our legs awhile in the Euston Flyer. No Porter today. So, I get a London Pride for both of us. Only, after ordering, noticing that there was also ESB.

Even at 16:00 on a Monday, there’s a Christmas party over in the corner. Paper hats and tinsel. I remember the fun.

“How’s your beer?”

“Very good, as always.”

She’s not wrong. It is pretty nice.

Just the one pint, then over the road to St. Pancras and the international station. Which, unlike last time, isn’t mobbed. We even manage to find seats. After doing the mandatory security and passport shit.

The good news is that our seats have a window. But, as it’s already dark, it’s not of much use.

I’m better prepared this time. K. has made sandwiches for both of us. From the really nice baguette we were given yesterday, And I’ve got some train whisky. I’ve everything I need for the journey. Now it’s time to relax.

When the train empties out in Brussels, I move to another row to give us each more room. A little bit cramped, I find the seats.

We arrive in Amsterdam on time. Thankfully. As it’s already pretty late: 23:15. A short tram ride, and we’re home before midnight.

The kids haven’t wrecked the flat. That’s good.




The Museum Tavern
49 Great Russell St,
London WC1B 3BA.
https://www.greeneking.co.uk/pubs/greater-london/museum-tavern


The Euston Flyer
83-87 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2RA,
ttps://www.eustonflyer.co.uk/