There are more than two hundred and fifty pubs where I live, of which I would class no more than ten as fit for human consumption. One of these is the 199-year-old Minerva, which features a philosophical owl on its façade, a room that seats two a maximum of two drinkers, a fleet’s worth of nautical charts, and fine views of the sludgy brown
The name of the goddess of arts and trades is written on a board, painted in the livery of one of the old railway companies. The windows of the pub beneath it stare at the empty shore a mile away, at other windows, jigged with grey light. Mute and opposite hostelries wear faces like slices of meat, haslet for example, and wait for Byron to swim between them, for the ticket office is locked,
the last ferry has gone.
The Minerva’s hinterland is due to be redeveloped, which makes it all the more ridiculous that the pub is about to close down, ostensibly for two years, but in reality quite obviously to make way for riverside flats. This is a total disgrace, and anyway in drinking distance of this marvellous boozer should contact Camra or simply go there and barricade yourself in before its proposed closure on 25 May.
Photo found here.