One of the wonderful benefits of professional flying is having some free time when traveling and the too-infrequent opportunity to be a bit of a tourist. Better yet are those serendipitous occasions when the stopover becomes much more than you’d have expected beforehand. Such was the case for me and my co-captain when we flew into London Southend Airport in the early spring of 2008. We’d been to Southend before but on this trip a hotel was booked for us in the nearby town of Rochford. Southend-on-Sea is east of London where the Thames feeds into the North Sea.
Rochford is a small town with a population of about 7,500. It’s proximity to the airport, once a fighter base during World War II, then subjected the town to frequent aerial bombardment. No bombs fell during our stay but we did have the opportunity to interact with a Spitfire before we left. Our hotel was the Maison Renouf, a newly opened boutique hotel near the center of town. After many a night spent in chain hotels a place like this with its 22 rooms, each with a unique floor plan and interior furnishings, is always a nice change. After dinner- “Bangers-and-Mash”- we decided to explore Rochford on foot and it didn’t take too long for us to find the King’s Head Inn.
It was late when we entered and the patrons were few, probably because it was mid-week. Not a large pub at all but made up of two small rooms, each with its own short bar, one half was vacant and dark. The building, we were told is 500 years old. In the occupied section, a fire blazed cheerfully in the small fire place. When we entered all heads turned to size us up- this is a place inhabited locals, after all, and well off any tourist track. Our accent gave us away when we ordered (I’d never had anyone refer to me as ‘Yank’ before that night) and soon we’d been introduced to everyone in the place. We made friends with the proprietor and his wife and had conversations with everyone in the pub. That particular night there was great concern expressed over the ever-growing British Nanny State, declining levels of personal responsibility, and the dilution of British culture under an influx of immigrants and declining birth rate of native Englanders.
British pubs have an unfortunate practice of closing the door at 11:00 p.m. each night. That night was no exception and promptly at eleven the door was locked. Happily, those of us still in the pub remained in the pub and continued to enjoy our drinks! In fact we enjoyed them for two more hours before returning to the hotel.
Following a good night’s sleep the two of us rode the train into downtown London to explore, but that’s a story for another day. In the evening we found ourselves back in the King’s Head but now awarded with the status of honorary local folk. We once again were invited for the after-hours session. Next morning, breakfasting at a small Rochford restaurant, the owner/manager stopped by our table to say she’d enjoyed meeting us in the King’s Head the night before last. We both agreed truly we’d achieved resident status in this delightful English village.
What about the Spitfire? At the King’s Head one of the ales on tap is Spitfire Kentish Ale, brewed for the Bottle of Britain. I’m not making this up- visit the website. It was quite delightful, I drank my fill, and I’ve got the logo bar glass and bar towel to prove it.
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