The Cockpit

In my late teens, I would, sometime early on a Sunday evening, sit on the lower stairs by the 'phone, and ring around my friends to see if they fancied coming down to The Plough, which is the pub situated at the end of my parents' road.

Later in the evening, then, a variably sized crowd of us would gather for a few drinks. In the summer, we'd sit at the trestle tables outside, but when the weather wasn't conducive to al fresco drinking, we'd occupy the room known as The Cockpit.

The story runs that from there is a passage that runs upstairs from the fireplace, across the first floor and down, and then under the Plough pond to emerge in the cottages on the far side of the road. This much I think is possibly true, despite the fact I've never seen it. A slightly less plausible twist is that it was once used by Dick Turpin to flee the authorities.

Anyway, I was there, this evening, with my brother, who makes a cameo in this picture, and my dad. I wonder when we were last in a pub together? I was with them having driven Dan back down to university, this afternoon. It was a pleasant journey; the weather was fine and Dan was excellent company. Driving through London, though, is no longer any fun. And you have to pay fifteen quid to do it!