Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel

After checking out the Globe, Liam and I walked across the Millenium Bridge to St. Paul's, certainly the most impressive building I've seen close up (though as I write this in Rome, it's recently been trumped by a couple of others!... more on that later). Then it was down Fleet Street in search of the former house of one Dr. Johnson.

We found the alleyway fairly easily, and ducked into a courtyard. It was quite obvious which was his place, four (or was it five) storeys worth of apartment (which, incidentally, he left to his black servant, Frank). So this was where much of the first English dictionary was written. It was here too that I was reminded (given the recent furor over the Aussie flag at the Sydney BDO, which was just as I was leaving Aus) of one of his many great pithy maxims - which I've used for the title of this post.

(below: Dr. Johnson's stairwell)

Then it was off through Grey's Inn, to the former house of one Chuck Dickens. We eventually found the place, but by the time we got there (as with Freud's place - see earlier post) it was shut. There were people moving in next door, and I wondered aloud whether they liked the idea of moving next door to Dickens' old place. "Maybe they hate Dickens," said Liam. I think he was getting tired of all this jaunting about.

(Liam outside Dickens' former house)

We were going to have a beer back home, but I convinced Liam to have one at a pub in the West End called The Fitzroy, which I'd recently read in the Time Out guide to West End pubs was, yes, you guessed it, once a writers' haunt. A red bus later and we were there, ordering a pint with the ghosts of Georgey Orwell, Dylan Thommo, Bernie Shaw & Ginnie Wolf.

(Pint at The Fitzroy.)