Belgravia pubs

As far as London goes it doesn't get much posher than the environs of Eaton Terrace. It's not the kind of neighbourhood where you would expect to find a pub. This establishment has a distinctly old English atmosphere: Fullers beers, a gin & tonic menu and photos of the pub's cricket team. Surprisingly we noticed an encouraging cross section of society in here on our visit, some people where huddled around the central bar and others hidden in one of the many darkened corners. There is a charming room off to the side for those who prefer to avoid tobacco smoke, although our enjoyment of the room was marred by the slobbering affections a couple had towards each other. They really should have booked themselves a room elsewhere. Nauseating couples aside, this is a decent pub. Down-to-earth, traditional, unremarkable but friendly bit of pub action. Does food, Sky sports. Occasionally fills with young men in trilbies yapping self-consciously about football in their mockney accents. Looking like a Regency house that decided to turn itself into a pub just for the hell of it, the Fox and Hounds certainly isn't short on architectural eccentricity. I'd guess the interior is pretty close to the original layout, with a tiny bar at the front serving a hideously limited selection of beers, and two smallish rooms making up the drinking area, both painted bright red and furnished with original paintings and an ornate, rather psychedelic skylight. There isn't much in the way of seating - or standing room for that matter - but the locals are friendly and it's situated on a back street, making standing out in the road less life-threatening than it would be in most areas. The signs at the entrance to Wilton Row are rather off putting: 'private mews' and 'no parking' may as well say 'poor people will be shot'. Don't be deterred as perseverance is rewarded by one of London's most charming and beguiling pubs. On entering the pub the first thing you notice is just how small it is. There is just about enough room for two small tables to one side and a handful of bar stools. Tankards, lanterns and even a set of gauntlets are among the decorative articles suspended from the ceiling, which in itself has been plastered with drinks labels that have merged into the brown paintwork over time. There is an intimate restaurant area at the back serving expensive gourmet fayre, although (expensive) bar food is also available at the usual pub mealtime hours. There is no TV or music here so our advice is grab yourself a drink and soak up the rich historical ambiance, or if it's a fine day venture outside and admire the sentry box. It's not orange, and it isn't a brewery. A rather ordinary establishment that seems out of place amid the fine Edwardian mansions and posh shops lining Lower Sloane Street. It provided a necessary pit stop on the long trek back from Battersea Park to Sloane Square tube. We were all dead legged and slavering for a pint after watching a fantastic firework display in the park. The pub was packed with other (mostly young) people who obviously had the same idea as us. Although it's not as if you're spoilt for choice with pubs in these parts. The choice of beer was disappointing. The only hand pump bitter was "off" and the remaining beers could have been found in almost any high street establishment. After ordering a pint of "reassuringly expensive" lager we grabbed a vacant area of floor space. It was only then when we began to notice something was wrong. It was as if the pub's owners had undertaken to refurbish the place, but hadn't bothered to finish the job. There were bare brackets without TVs to hold and chases cut into the walls for as yet uninstalled wires. The cowboys have obviously been, drunk all the decent beer and ridden off into the sunset. On a weirder note, a small square area behind the bar had been curtained off. I kept expecting some naked person to emerge enquiring as to the whereabouts of the soap. I suppose we should be pleased that a pub even exists near Sloane Square; after all it did a fine job of quenching our thirsts and did provide some form of avant gard entertainment value. However the lack of decent beer and the "building site chic" are unlikely to win over the discerning residents of this affluent part of London. It does not bode well for the future. Getting lost in Belgravia is rather easy, as all the streets tend to look the same: giant stucco-fronted townhouses as absurd and grandly intimidating as a row of armed soldiers in bearskins. The mews roads behind are usually more interesting, as you pass through a giant wheatsheaf-decorated arch into a maze of little streets and rather more human-sized domiciles. Having, therefore, heard about a mews pub in Belgravia, I was expecting something relatively modest, like the Dover Castle in Marylebone, and was surprised instead to be faced with a building more in keeping with the main hotel in a fair-sized town. Rich tourists are the order of the day here, eating traditional English fayre and guzzling real ale like there's no tomorrow, and there was a particularly impressive line in aged Californian lotharios, all linen suits, intercontinental business deals, dubious moustaches and plastic girlfriends. It's a great hunting ground if you are looking to marry a rich, old person who will drop dead of a heart attack mid-flagrante, but for the rest of us, best stay far, far away.

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