“And Turner has drowned you in this moment, pulled you into this terrifying chasm in the ocean, drenched you in this bloody light – exactly the hue you sense in your blood filled optic nerves when you close your eyes in blinding sunlight.” – Simon Schama

Last time I was in London my trip was mainly concerned with beer and pubs. An exception had been a trip with an old friend Erica to the National Portrait Gallery. Having previously watched the Simon Schama series about the gallery I really enjoyed it as I was primed with the stories behind the pictures. I also managed to visit where the fateful Churchill portrait was painted. But I digress.
This time I decided I wanted to see more art while in London. I was set about visiting the Rothko room and seeing the Seagram paintings. Sadly the Rothko room is no longer a permanent fixture and during my visit the Seagram paintings were being unbolted from the Tate in St Ives and wouldn’t be on show again in London till later in the year.

Still London has some other art , I supposed. And so, we found ourselves heading into London to see the Turner room at Tate Britain. First however, we had a very special lunch to attend to.

I had wanted to eat at a St John Restaurant for some time. The iconoclastic ‘not modern British but permanent British’ restaurant empire from the father of modern nose to tail dining. So, I booked mum and myself in for lunch at the Spitalfields restaurant and we traversed the tube towards Brick Lane. We wandered up the road surrounded by the deceased remains of the last great London porter brewery to slip from the earth. We popped into an eclectic Pakistani café and had a coffee. Then we proceeded to The Pride of Spitalfields for a pre-lunch refreshment. The Pride of Spitalfields is my favourite London pub. I discovered it last time I was in London while skiving off working the Craft Beer Rising Festival in the old Trumans Brewery space. As we approached, I took a photo and a gent outside smoking jovially shouted out “oh shit you have caught me on film! I’m meant to be at work!!”. As we opened the door we stepped into a different world. The pub bustled with a warm friendly air, the two ladies behind the bar welcomed everyone in East London accents, making sure all drinkers were catered to for drinks and banter. Groups of middle-aged men chatted animatedly. I saw a glimpse of Dennis Waterman’s ghost in the corner.

We ordered a pint of Crouch Vale Brewers Gold and a ½ of London Pride and found a perch over by the piano. When it was time to leave mum was as hesitant to go as I was. It really is like stepping into the Queen Vic in Eastenders, but without the drama.
As we stepped out the call to prayer rang out from the local mosque. Modern Britain doing it’s thing alongside the old.
We walked the 2 blocks to St John and shuffled in out of the cold. Mum had been hesitant about visiting a flash restaurant worrying that we would be under dressed. I had assured her it would be pretty casual and sure enough there wasn’t a tuxedo or evening suit in the house. We were sat next to two young northern accented chefs who were enthusiastically eating and talking and planning their empires. I ordered up a storm and the run of small plates began to arrive. First the flagship roasted bone marrow on toast with parsley salad. Then a mild washed rind cheese called Rollright served with grilled pink fir apple potatoes and spring onion. A delicious rich emulsion of smoked cod’s roe followed. Then Rabbit braised with Chorizo and lentils and finally a bowl of devilled crab. An outstanding meal.

From there a couple more tube rides and we walked the last few blocks to Tate Britian. I had hoped that walking through Westminster we might have gotten some decent ‘tourist views’ of parliament and Big Ben (or whichever name one wants to use for the clock tower) however our route seemed to take us through back streets and we just got the odd glimpse of Parliament through the buildings.    

We arrived at Tate Britain and managed to enter via the backdoor and thus it took us a bit to find our way out of the cafeteria and toilet area of the building. Once we had alighted several staircases we found our way to the Turner room.
Turner is now an English landscape darling. But in his time, he was subversive and political. His chosen subjects often provided barbs to prick English hubris or self-congratulation. His paintings were intense, at times dreamlike, at times a nightmare. I have a lot of time for him. The paintings didn’t disappoint. As a bonus we had one Rothko in the room as Rothko was influenced by Turner. True to form Rothko was quoted as saying that Turner had learnt a lot from him.

Not being able to face a slog back through grey Westminster streets we jumped in a Black Cab to get up to Fleet Street. Our driver was a delight, and we enjoyed a running commentary of everything we passed. He dropped us at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and we stepped into old London. Ignoring the sign above the door saying men only, everyone ignores it, the establishment included, we entered the front bar which was scented with delicious wood smoke from the open fire. The pub is owned by Sam Smiths a controversial Yorkshire brewer and pub owner. On the plus side of the equation, they are known for keeping their pubs traditional and encouraging conversation without the hinderance of pumping music or turquoise paint jobs. A pint of Old Brewery Bitter and a ½ of stout were ordered and we moved into one of the many back rooms.

Next, we ventured across the road with the intent of having a Guiness at the Tipperary, a pub touted as the oldest Irish Pub outside of Ireland. It isn’t, but it is one of the oldest pubs in London. Unfortunately, it was closed for refurbishment which it seems to be more than it is open these days. So, we ducked down a side lane next to a construction site and had a last drink in The Harrow. London Pride for me and Guiness for mum. Then it was onto the tube back to Tottenham, a delivery pizza and my first decent night’s sleep in blighty.