The Bell, Walton on the Hill

I say Walton, it could be Endor. In fact, it almost certainly would have improved Return of the Jedi if there'd been an incongruous red brick pub instead of the fucking Sylvanian Families. And it would have been a shit tonne better for the party when the Death Star blows up. Downside, trickier to flog lucrative merch to impressionable demanding children. I know what the cast would have rathered, most of them were off their tits.

Whilst I'm on the subject - isn't this an odd way to start a write up of an excellent pub? - how did they always manage to land on exactly the right spot on an entire Earth sized planet or moon? I know they were Earth sized because the gravity was always exactly 1g. It's a life ruining pain in the arse if you mistakenly go to Carmarthen rather than Caernarfon, imagine if you landed on Dagobar's equivalent of Lapland only to find that Yoda was busy sunning themself in Tuvalu?

There were no such issues whilst navigating the forest moon of Walton however, as I had an online mapping tool from an American software giant that outwardly prides itself on not being evil, yet seems to act with the avarice of the galactic empire. I alighted at Tadworth station on the Tattenham Corner branch line, which by its bucolic appearance you would not ordinarily expect to find within the M25. On the day of my visit, trains were hourly in each direction which gave me forty minutes to explore Purley. Which was a disappointment, even when considering that my only prior knowledge of Purley was from Monty Python's Nudge Nudge Wink Wink sketch. Still disappointing.

But shortly to Tadworth where I strolled around the woods, mindful at all time of Ents (sorry to confuse nerd-adjacent film trilogy references) and happened not completely coincidentally upon The Bell.

What an absolute gem of a pub! And it would have to be good to survive in this location, it's almost completely surrounded by forest - which in London terms is basically the same as it being half way up an active volcano.

It is unlike any London pub that I've ever come across, and yes, I am classing this as a London pub. And here's a fucking truth bomb Londoners - if you're going to insist that the entire UK can be delineated into London and "the Regions" - which by common definition are bleak tundras populated by either inbred, gap-toothed farmhands or bitter ex-coalminers drinking pints of Mild and flying their whippets - then I'm going to define London as anywhere inside the M25. Which is how the entire rest of the UK fucking sees it. And if you disagree FACK YOU FACKIN CANT!

I hit upon a gravel lane amongst the trees and proceeded on a northerly vector. Out of the woods hoved a very short terrace of houses comprising of a couple of beautiful whitewashed cottages adjoined to which was  a sort of red brick barbican shrouded in honeysuckle. I was pretty turned on.

To return to my earlier point, for a pub to continue its existence in such a location means it must be doing something special. For a lot of places this just entails Sunday dinner. Which is easy and obvious. Perhaps I'll write about it on a later occasion. But The Bell was in the absolute arse-end of nowhere (in London terms) and yet was still extant - and when I visited, doing a roaring trade.

To put you in mind - you have wandered through a beautiful ancient forest (which because it's London also borders a dual carriageway)  and you stumble upon a pub which clearly has no local demographic, and you might think it needs to be a bit like The Cricketers in Epsom - serving a fuck tonne of beige food to cover the overheads.

But this is not the case. In fact, I'm not even sure that meals are available at all (I have been informed by those that take an interest in my health that a combination of real ale, crisps, and scratchings do NOT constitute a meal - as much as I may beg to fucking differ).

The interior of the pub is a timewarp in the best possible way. It has character. There is a central, square bar straddling two rooms, the first I entire is the Lounge. There's chocolate stained wood panelling, an ancient red patterned carpet - and tat everywhere! I'm so relieved that they've avoided the temptation to paint everything duck egg blue, install laminate flooring, and have chalkboards all over the place - the pub equivalent of a Live, Love, Laugh sign.

It's not a big pub, and this room has been filled by about eight people. The ales are London Pride and Shere Drop. I opt for the latter, which is in excellent condition.

There doesn't seem to be any space available on the walls. Every inch taken up by sun bleached and tobacco stained pictures, shelves covered in trinkets, awful light fittings, it reminds me of the country pubs of my youth - freehouses, not these cavernous anonymous country pubs on the outskirts of London that seem to exist solely for the purpose of Sunday lunch (never Sunday dinner down here is it?)

Alas, I am pretty warm from my walk through the forest and as it's a balmy day I decide to sit outside. There is plenty of space set aside for benches, but a beer garden this is not. It is very much a forest clearing, and on a weekday I would fully expect to see burly, bearded forestry workers with chainsaws coming through here on Unimogs. It's a beer garden where you're more likely to see Ray Mears than Alan Titchmarsh. 

The Shere Drop suitably refreshes me and I remember that it's difficult to write a meaningful pub critique without spending at least some time in the actual pub (unless it's a shithole, see my review of the Coach & Horses) so upon purchasing my next pint I sit inside in the half of the pub which I shall refer to as the Public Bar. It is as delightfully tat adorned as the Lounge, but the parquet flooring is crying out for some sawdust.

My only grievance at this point is the telly. There's only one, on a table in an archway between the two rooms, and it's showing horseracing - a sport I couldn't give one single sliver of a subatomic sized fuckette about. What's showing isn't the issue, the issue is the fucking volume! It's not pleasant having to listen to Two Headed Sex Beast, Massive Abortion, or Trust Me I'm A Stomach falling at the first hurdle and being destroyed (an odd euphemism when you think about it) but the thing that really grates is leaving the fucking adverts on full blast too.

If I've found a truly wonderful, isolated pub, a true sanctuary from the world, the last bulwark against IKEA, then the very last thing I want is to be forcing down a pint whilst apoplectic with rage that I'm once again forced to listen to that fucking advert where all those people in that cafe dressed in pink all have fucking diarrhoea and think it's a big old fucking sing song. We all know that cafe has one single unloved shitter, and it's fucking apocalyptic in there.

I put my earphones in and listen to Brothers In Arms until the telly gets turned off, and I'm much happier. What I like most of all about this pub is that it feels like I've escaped what might be considered The Real World. I consider myself somewhat politically engaged, and I am fully aware that no woman is an island. Perhaps I refresh the homepage of the Grauniad too much. I don't learn any more and it doesn't make me happier. Far from it. I think I need a place like this. For an hour a week, to be completely oblivious to what's happening in Gaza/Ukraine/Sudan. None of which is in my power to change.

I will still care of course, but what if for a few hours you could drink some lovely beer and talk about your favourite episode of The Good Life instead?

This pub is an island, a sanctuary from the real and fucking horrible world. It's what all pubs ought to be. So please, don't go to The Bell, you will almost certainly fucking ruin it.