Clerkenwell pubs

The Apple Tree, 45 Mount Pleasant Street, WC1X 0AE

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The elided borough of Finsbury constitutes a very peculiar area of London. Stretching from Gray's Inn Road in the west to City Road in the east, it seems to have no centre or focus, and sprawls in a red-brick mess across several hills. It isn't really near anything, despite being in Zone 1, and has no tube stops or slabs of distinctive architecture to define it. So far, its lack of a discernable identity has saved it from the avaricious clutches of the property developers, who elsewhere have been busy stripping away the character and charm of the city in order to provide apartments for the graceless and bubble-headed New Young Rich. Finsbury won't stay this way for long, Exmouth Market having already been gentrified, so it's worth taking the time to aimlessly ramble around while much of its old character still remains. The area has a somewhat bleak, tumbledown appeal with its inward-looking squares of Peabody housing, half-hearted attempts at light industry, the incongruous groups of well-heeled lawyers clattering along its shoddy streets. Outside the environs of Exmouth Market, one can walk a long way without finding a pub. The Apple Tree stands at the western edge of this area, right by the ham-fisted architecture of Mount Pleasant Post Office, once the world's largest sorting office and still a brutal monster of a building. It provides a good stopping point on the way into Finsbury, at least on weekdays (it's closed at weekends). A solid, unpretentious sort of place, decorated in the usual dark wood with grimy yellowing walls, it is split neatly into two areas by the bar. The affable clientele are mostly Post Office employees, and due to the nature of their shifts the pub is usually fairly busy whatever the time of day. It would be a fairly unremarkable sort of place - ignoring its stolid resistance to any sort of redesign - apart from its astonishing opening hours, which are from 11am-1am Monday-Friday. No bouncers, no locked door policy, no DJ attempting to drown out the last sighs of conversation. Just turn up and drink after hours. I can only admire such a straightforward attitude. Welcome to Finsbury.

The Bear, 2 St John's Square, EC1M 4DE

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St Johns Square is a quiet enclave off busy Clerkenwell Road. A castellated gatehouse spans the south side of the square and houses the Museum of the Order of St John. Restored period properties look in from the eastern side of the square, while the western side is dominated by the pub. The Bear is housed within a brick and glass box and sticks out like a sore thumb. Tables spill out onto the square in a continental fashion but fail to recreate the ambiance of an Italian piazza because a) Half the square is being dug up and b) a gigantic and entirely unnecessary 4x4 vehicle is parked outside. When not parked one imagines its owner taking it for an off road spin on Clerkenwell Green. A team of interior designers have been let loose on the pub itself: enormous brightly coloured lanterns hang from the ceiling like a pair of swollen testicles, retro 1970s purple curtains and psychedelic patterns abound. There are pointless murals on opposing walls in the upstairs bar. One resembles an Eastern Bloc watchtower and the other looks like a radio transmitter. Are we supposed to think this is cool? Oh and there is a large American style pool table. The main attraction of this place is its gorgeous Eastern European bar staff, but they are merely part of a grand plan to lure unsuspecting young men into the establishment. Like moths to a naked flame they are doomed to pay over the odds for crap beer (only Carlsberg, Stella and Guinness were on tap) and be served food portions designed for anorexic ants. The lack of a TV screen on a night when England were playing an important World Cup qualifier against Poland was another disappointment. Rubbish.

The Betsey Trotwood, 56 Farringdon Road, EC1R 3BL

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It's open! This is a major turn-up for the bleak environs of Farringdon on a Sunday. Although cleared of most of its previous idiosyncratic clutter (leaving a cool, spacious-feeling summer pub) Charlie Chaplin still lolls hallucinogenically 10 foot above the bar. Which can be quite arresting, especially after a few pints of Bishop's Finger. Apparently the ladies loos are 'spooky', although I haven't been down to check. Friendly bar staff, free bar-top snacks and not very many punters. Sky sports, but not obtrusively. You can even sit outside and choke on the traffic fumes

The Blue Lion, 133 Gray's Inn Road, WC1X 8TZ

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Kinda fun. Dark, dingy, full of people in suits, this is still a decent boozer. Not open on weekends, and rather rowdy on Fridays, it's still worth the trip. Football and food etc

The Crown, 43 Clerkenwell Green, EC1R 0EG

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By far the most palatable pub in the neighbourhood, mainly due to a low incidence of trendy rich media folk. It tries to look older than it actually is, and nearly succeeds. 10 years down-the-line, presuming it has not fallen victim to the plague of stripped pine, it will look like the real thing. Very large, and although often crowded, seats round the back are usually available.

The Dovetail, 9-10 Jerusalem Passage, EC1V 4JP

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Ah, Belgian beer... Lets face it, nobody would ever venture into Belgium were it not for the beer and now that you can get hold of it here there really is no excuse for venturing over the Channel. Upon entering The Dovetail the barman presented us with a menu. I was concerned that we may have stumbled into a restaurant masquerading as a pub, but after inspecting the menu it became clear we had come to the right place. There is a very nice food selection with such delicacies as wild boar burger, but this takes up only one page and the rest of the menu is absolutely packed with drinks, mostly splendid Belgian beer. The choice was huge, including Trappist, Lambic and other oddities. Somewhat disappointingly it was lunchtime so I was unable to sample more than a couple before returning to work. The decor is simple, the atmosphere relaxed and there is no music. So highly recommended then, but a word of warning; the pub is pretty small so I suspect it could get pretty packed in the evenings.

The Duke of York, 156 Clerkenwell Road, EC1R 5DU

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A decent pub. Its fire engine red exterior beams out onto Clerkenwell Road and beckons a crowd dominated, weirdly enough, by cycle couriers. We visited during a late summer pub crawl and watched England triumph in test cricket over the West Indies. The beer's good and they serve delicious smelling Thai food. Beyond the L-shaped bar lies an area devoted to the playing of pool. This is one of the few genuine pubs left in the area. When you consider that the only competition are overpriced gastropubs or a stripper's pub it's no wonder the place gets so busy.

The Exmouth Arms, 23 Exmouth Market, EC1R 4QL

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The pub equivalent of fancying Justin Timberlake.

The Horseshoe, 24 Clerkenwell Close, EC1R 0AG

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OK, I'll start by going back a few years, to the 1970s. Let's face it, there wasn't a lot to keep you entertained. Decent restaurants didn't exist (Wimpy and Little Chef don't count) and telly was rubbish (no really, even more rubbish than now, if it wasn't wrestling you had to watch the test card). So pubs at the time didn't need to make a huge amount of effort to attract the drinking public. They would sell beer, provide a loo and that was about all. As time has gone on these kind of pubs have disappeared. You won't find them on the high street, where pubs have been updated to attract women and families, certainly not a bad thing. But down the occasional backstreet you'll find one of these establishments, although the backstreet variety are suffering a different fate as they get bulldozed to be replaced by luxury apartments. So The Horseshoe is one of a dying breed. There are many reasons not to like it (the poor selection of beer being one) but the sheer nostalgia of a simpler age makes it a top pub. There is a also a splendid beer garden hidden round the back. Get there before the developers do...

The Jerusalem Tavern, 55 Britton Street, EC1M 5NA

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Owned by St Peters Brewery, so a rich diversity of Stouts, Porters, Bitters and (yes) lagers on sale, most of which are delicious, and speak of an alternative possibility for the UK brewing industry, had it chosen the Belgian route rather than the overwhelming dullness of the big-brewery domination. This pub doesn't bother with fruit machines, television or music. For that matter it doesn't bother with cushions, decorations or anything really, other than beer. Which doesn't stop it from getting rammed every Friday. Turn up early, bag a (very hard) seat, and get drinking...

King of Diamonds, 1 Greville Street, EC1N 8PQ

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Having recently spent several hours trapped on a reeking railway platform in India, with bird excrement falling like rain all around me and a thousand people staring on, I'm finding it hard right now to be impressed by Bad Things. But I suspect that the station in question (Ambala Cantonment, for anyone seeking scatological thrills) and this pub deserve each other, separated as they are by 4000 miles and a mindblowing wealth gap. Stuck on the bottom of a tower block the way that shit sticks to the bottom of a shoe, the nasty cheap exterior to the King of Diamonds proves to be worthy of Ambala's grim train station architecture, and is rather unfortunately the pub's best attribute. On entering, everything immediately goes downhill. In a feeble attempt to mitigate the dingy cadaverous atmosphere the interior has had a posh Firkin-style makeover, with cream and green walls and light wooden tables in the desperate hope that it will suddenly appeal to sophisticated laydeez. Oddly, it doesn't. Crowded behind me at the bar are the sort of first-jobber spoilt rich-kid idiots I have spent my life trying to escape, not a sophisticate - let alone a laydee - among them. When I manage to kick myself through their scrum to find a seat in a quiet corner I am confronted on the opposite table by a couple breaking up. Tearfully. Loudly. Oh. Hemmed in by a wall of bland yet sophisticated cream, dazzled by halogen spotlights and surrounded by heartbreak, I make a dash for the upstairs roof terrace. This has decking underfoot, not as some retro Alan Titchmarsh Putney garden fashion statement, but in a genuine 1980s 'Club Tropicana' attempt at Mediterranean cool. Adding wonderfully to this impression are an assortment of dying pot plants and what appear to be bulletproof windows. Yes, windows. On an outside terrace. Which rather undoes the whole point of being outside. By this point overwhelmed by the crapness of the joint, I did not even bother to explore the underground pool hall, which I imagine looks something like Fagin's lair crossed with a Miami Vice luxury apartment. It's taken me months (and a trip to Ambala Cantonment) to bring myself to write this review, such is the awesomely hideous power of the King of Diamonds. It is, in its way, a rather impressive place.

The King's Arms, 11a Northington Street, WC1N 2JF

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Small, knackered, interesting, sitting watching the world go by on a thursday afternoon sort of place. Not open at weekends

Old China Hand, 8 Tysoe Street, EC1R 4RQ

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East meets west in this Clerkenwell pub. Here you can drink a pint of real ale whilst nibbling on delicious Dim Sum. Furniture made from chain-sawed and polished lumps of tree site outside and are one of the few clues that this place is even a pub. On the inside it's all a bit bland and minimalist except the bar itself, where a hammock decorated with Chinese miniature lanterns is suspended above the beer pumps. The overall appearance blurs the boundaries between pub and restaurant, and though this might not be to everybody’s taste, we think its quirkiness earns it a recommendation.

The Old Ivy House, 166 Goswell Rd, EC1V 7DT

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Though on a busy road, this place has the atmosphere of a backstreet local. Regulars huddle around the bar chatting to the barmaid, while the rest of the pub seems devoid of life. A keyboard stands alone awaiting someone to tinkle its ivories later on. Serves excellent Shepherd Neame ales.

The Peasant, 240 St John's Street, EC1V 4PH

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The name and the rather Babushka-esque pub sign suggest a somewhat down-at-heel establishment comprising simple rustic furnishings inhabited by equally simple country folk, but this is Clerkenwell and we are miles from the Russian steppes here. This is in fact a gastropub, a light and airy restaurant upstairs serves a range of quality Mediterranean-inspired fayre whilst the downstairs bar combines stripped neo-Victoriana with pop culture. The mosaic floor contrasts nicely with the walls, which are decorated with images of Che Guevara and Chairman Mao (among others) alongside Depeche Mode posters. There is a superb offering of drinks at the bar comprising real ale, Belgian beer and cider plus all the usual malarkey. This is one of the few trendy gastropubs in the area that has some real substance to match its style and we like it.

The Sekforde Arms, 34 Sekforde Street, EC1R 0HA

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Sadly, mention of Clerkenwell usually brings to mind nuu meeja fools bellowing at each other over a game of table football in some hideous lounge bar. Its fall from grace is, however, far from total; get away from the Green and the area around Farringdon and there are still numerous streets that evoke the world of 'Oliver Twist', winding roads with blackened brick buildings, mazy through passages and odd little courtyards. It is this latter world that the Sekforde Arms inhabits, sitting at the intersection of two rambling lanes that have completely by-passed the last 50 years. The interior doesn't disappoint, lacking all the usual mod-cons and instead dragging most of its pre-war fittings into the twenty-first century. Resolutely down-to-earth and extremely pleasing, the good atmosphere and nice barstaff help lift this place way above the ordinary. The only slight problem being the bar area's lack of a decent amount of seating, but there is, however, a separate room with a few more tables should the need arise. Youngs/Wells pub, so good beer, and a clientele that seems to appreciate it. Worth going out of your way to locate.

The Slaughtered Lamb, 34-35 Great Sutton Street, EC1V 0DX

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Frankly I was a little disappointed with this place. There was no gruesome pub sign depicting a slavering hound swinging ominously above the door, no brooding locals inside warning me to "stay off the moors". Then I remembered I was in Clerkenwell, some 200 miles from the nearest moors and I was more likely to be attacked by a drunken media secretary than a werewolf. Onto the review: well, this place is more akin to a students' union except the beer's a bit pricey. It seems to be popular with musos and there is a programme of regular events here including acoustic nights and comedy nights. They even serve roast dinners here. What's the speciality of the house? Yes, you've guessed it, it's slaughtered lamb. There is a downstairs bar available to hire on Friday and Saturday nights.

The Three Kings, 7 Clerkenwell Close, EC1R 0DY

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This is definitely one of the more interesting pubs in the area. The pub sign, instead of depicting the three kings who came to visit the baby Jesus, rather quirkily displays a picture of King Kong, Elvis and Henry VIII (three kings). The rather ‘avant–garde’ theme continues inside: the walls are decorated with arty posters and a large mounted rhino’s head. It has a young and vibrant feel but without trying to be buttock-clenchingly trendy like oh so many other so called pubs. It hosts a weekly music quiz on Monday nights and live music appears to be a regular feature. Drinks-wise there is enough to please most punters and they have an enticing, if rather limited food menu. All in all it’s a pretty good pub.

Two Brewers, 121 Whitecross Street, EC1Y 8JH

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The walk north along Whitecross Street from Chiswell Street towards this pub is probably only 200m, but it feels like a journey into a distant suburb or even another age. A string of local shops lines the road and there seems to be a refreshing community spirit in the air. The pub is on a street corner before you reach Whitecross Street Market. The traditional, if rather battered décor is welcoming in a shabby kind of way. The painted pub sign hanging outside has peeled and now resembles a four year old's art work. Several decades of tobacco haze have browned the furnishings nicely and a TV murmurs quietly in the background. Like most ultra traditional pubs they don't serve food, but to be fair they do allow customers to eat sandwiches from off the premises. The beer is decent and served with a smile. On our visit a jolly procession of mature regulars added to the atmosphere.

The White Lion, 37 Central Street, EC1V 8AB

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We finished up here at the end of an RPF pub crawl, but utterly failed to review this place on account of our drunken amnesia and an attack of zombies (see the photograph in the gallery section of this website). Two months later and we're back to finish the job. Although it's only a ten minute walk from Barbican, it feels like it's a world away: quiet side streets and council flats. On entering the pub, the lounge stretches along the bar to the left and disappears around the corner close to an open fire (fake, but still endearing). Behind the bar is a large water tank which has become a dumping ground for discarded bottles. Closer inspection reveals that slightly bemused looking fish swimming amid the arty alcopop graveyard. There is a fine selection of beers on offer as well as a colourful and exotic stash of spirits in one corner. I opted for the Adnams. There has clearly been a woman's touch in the decor here. An elaborate mural of a vine creeps its way up a column whilst a skilfully painted musical instrument occupies a small corner of the far wall. The lounge, it seems, extends around the end of the bar and opens out into another room containing a pool table. French doors lead out to a very small but pleasant beer garden. On our first visit here there was a lively mix of young people and locals. On our second visit here we found a healthy mix of ages, races and classes of people all enjoying a quiet drink and a chat. It's probably only a matter of time before the creeping development of nearby Clerkenwell reaches this forgotten corner of Finsbury. We wish this place well and hope it thrives despite this threat.

The Wilmington Arms, 69 Rosebery Avenue, EC1R 4RL

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So dull that I actually forgot the salient features of the pub while I was still sitting in it. Large, blandly decorated and utterly unremarkable in every way, it reduces itself to a sepia blur in the mind. Has a pool table and an attached music venue. Conversation is occasionally interrupted by the sub-Oasis squawkings from the Babyshambles of tomorrow.

The Yorkshire Grey, 29-33 Grays Inn Road, WC1X 8PN

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I had been avoiding this one for as long as possible, but fate beckoned me towards its doorway on a night out with some people from the office before Christmas. The first pub we passed would have been fine, but one of our group objected to the number of male cyclists drinking there, so we were forced to walk on. Another member of our group was magnetically attracted to a second pub, mainly because ladies are known to take off their clothes in there for a small fee. He was outvoted, so by default we headed for the nearest visible pub which just happened to be the Yorkshire Grey. The words 'Yorkshire Grey - Pub and Kitchen' come into focus as we draw nearer to the front door. This is a BAD SIGN. It is also pretentious, pointless and annoying. It serves food - so what? Other pubs serve food and they don't make a fuss. Pubs also have other amenities. What will it be next? Pub, Toilet and Dart Board? As I am pushed through the door (incidentally my finger nails are only just growing back. The originals are probably still buried in the door frame), I quickly realise that I am far too sober to be here. The place is rammed full of people out on their office Christmas bash: lascivious laydeez and boorish blokes alternate between raucous conversation and a sort of mistimed shuffling to the throbbing music. I grab my 5th pint of the evening and drink quickly in the hope that my senses will be dulled sufficiently to allow me to stay long enough to avoid upsetting anybody I am with. Conversation is futile so I am reduced to behaving like an imbecile: nodding at opportune moments and saying "hmm" and "really?" a lot. During gaps in this attempted discourse I make mental notes of my surroundings. The place has been stripped bare in an attempt to achieve a 'minimalist chic' vibe and there is a function room available for hire. After having my 6th pint even my companions are starting to feel the pain, so mercifully we leave. I for one will not be back.

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