Journey of doom!

Don’t go to Martins Heron. I was forced at guilt point. You have a choice. If you don’t believe me, just travelling there is cursed. We got to Waterloo just in time to see the back of the train. Then I had to coax out of an inept ticket inspector where exactly we could buy some tickets and after nearly drawing an air diagram like an irate mime, he pointed across the station and said, ‘machine.’

Once on the next train, the power cut out and the doors wouldn’t open. A bizarre scratching noise was coming from one of the ceiling ventilators giving the whole scene over to the beginnings of a bad horror film.


The train finally left Waterloo twenty minutes late and another forty minutes later, filled only by bleak looking scenery, we arrived. There we were met by our hosts who informed us that we wouldn’t be going to the quaint, traditional pub for lunch but instead one in the middle of a junction.

No shrubberies here, just a concrete car park. The pub was called The Seagull or something and I was told that it used to be dog kennels, which gave the place a weird sense of inauthenticity. I mean you could tell anyway, but somehow the information made the darkened ceiling beams; huge hearth and old photographs seem even more out of place.


The food was ok and the wine was pretty good too, that was the only saving grace. From what I could tell there’s sweet fuck all to do in Martins Heron, apart from something we passed on the way called Coral World. The sign read, almost more as a plea than a statement of fact, ‘Start being excited.’

They should replace Martins Heron with a giant coral reef no one would mind