I didn’t come to Britain to learn anything.
That’s the honest truth. I came for a working holiday, a bit of travel, and the noble pursuit of figuring out whether British pints really were warmer than Australian ones (they’re not warm, just misunderstood). Education was meant to be incidental — something absorbed accidentally while waiting for a delayed train or squinting at a castle plaque.
So when a sunny Saturday in London turned into one of the most unexpectedly educational days of my life, I can only blame the pubs.
It began, as all terrible ideas do, with confidence.
There were four of us: two Aussies, a Kiwi, and an Irish bloke who claimed he was “just here for the vibes” but took the role of unofficial pub historian far too seriously. The plan was simple — a cheerful, irresponsible pub crawl through central London. No museums. No guided tours. Just pints, banter, and whatever stories emerged between sips.
By the end of the night, we’d accidentally walked through nearly a thousand years of British history, uncovered local legends, and stumbled onto a mystery involving monks, secret tunnels, and a pub that may or may not have been built on a mass grave.
Not bad for a day that started with a hangover.
Stop One: The George Inn — Shakespeare’s Local (Probably)
Our first stop was The George Inn in Southwark, a timber-framed beauty tucked behind Borough High Street. According to Historic England and the National Trust, it’s the last surviving galleried coaching inn in London, dating back to the 17th century, though records suggest a pub has stood on the site since medieval times.
Standing in the courtyard, pint in hand, it was impossible not to feel like an extra in a Shakespeare adaptation. Which made sense — Shakespeare himself supposedly drank here while working nearby at the Globe Theatre.
“Supposedly,” of course, is doing a lot of heavy lifting in British history.
Still, when you’re drinking under wooden balconies that once hosted travelling performers, you can forgive a bit of romantic exaggeration. Our Irish mate launched into a speech about how pubs weren’t just places to drink — they were community centres, post offices, meeting halls, and sometimes even courtrooms.
I nodded politely, assuming this was pub trivia he’d picked up to impress backpackers.
I was wrong. This was only the beginning.
Stop Two: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese — Rebuilt After Fire, Refilled With Stories
From Southwark, we wandered north toward Fleet Street, drawn in by a pub name that looked like it hadn’t changed since the plague: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Rebuilt in 1667 after the Great Fire of London, the pub is a favourite of historians, writers, and anyone who enjoys drinking underground by candlelight. According to the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum and literary historians, regulars once included Samuel Johnson, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, and possibly every journalist who’s ever missed a deadline on Fleet Street.
Down in the cellar — which feels more like a medieval oubliette — we drank ale beneath soot-blackened ceilings and began talking to a bloke at the bar who introduced himself simply as “Martin, retired, born round here.”
Martin told us that some of the tunnels beneath the pub were rumoured to connect to old printing houses and churches, used to smuggle papers and, occasionally, people. The tunnels, he said, were “officially sealed,” which in Britain means “definitely existed.”
The thing about British pubs is this: every story sounds ridiculous until you remember the country has been continuously inhabited, invaded, rebuilt, and set on fire for two thousand years.
Suddenly, nothing feels impossible.
Stop Three: The Prospect of Whitby — Pirates, Poets, and Hangings
By mid-afternoon, the crawl had become less “bar hop” and more “chronological walking tour with beer.” We headed east along the Thames to The Prospect of Whitby, officially one of London’s oldest riverside pubs.
According to Historic England and the Museum of London, the pub dates back to 1520 and was once known as the Devil’s Tavern — a name that made immediate sense once we stepped inside.
The pub’s most charming feature is the hanging noose displayed outside, commemorating its connection to executions once carried out along the Thames. Pirates, smugglers, and mutineers were allegedly brought here for a final drink before being hanged at Execution Dock.
Inside, we met a woman named Sheila who claimed her family had lived in Wapping for generations. She spoke casually about how the river used to be both lifeline and graveyard — a working highway filled with ships, bodies, and secrets.
By this point, the centuries were starting to blur together. Tudor sailors, Victorian journalists, Georgian poets — all linked by the same thing: pubs that outlasted them all.
The Mystery Emerges (Somewhere Around Pint Seven)
It was at this point — somewhere between intellectual curiosity and mild intoxication — that we noticed a pattern.
Several pubs we’d visited, across different eras and locations, shared eerily similar stories: underground tunnels, secret meetings, unexplained renovations, and records that conveniently went missing during fires or “administrative reorganisations.”
Our Irish historian friend suggested that many old taverns doubled as safe houses during religious persecution, particularly during the Reformation. According to historians cited by CAMRA (the Campaign for Real Ale) and British History Online, inns often sheltered Catholic priests, political dissidents, and smugglers.
The theory was simple: pubs weren’t just witnesses to history — they actively shaped it.
Were these places connected? Probably not in a grand Da Vinci Code sort of way. But were they part of a loose, informal network of secrecy and survival? Absolutely.
And that, we decided, was far more interesting.
Final Stop: The Spaniards Inn — Where Time Gives Up
We ended the crawl at The Spaniards Inn in Hampstead, a pub that dates back to 1585 and is mentioned in Charles Dickens’ work as well as John Keats’ letters.
By now, the conversation had slowed. The laughter softened. The weight of time settled in.
Here we were — a bunch of antipodeans drinking in a place older than Australia’s entire colonial history. A pub that had survived plagues, wars, industrialisation, and the invention of karaoke.
It was humbling in a way no museum ever quite manages.
What the Pubs Taught Me
I came to Britain thinking history lived in castles and galleries. But history, I learned, lives where people gather. Where they argue, drink, plan rebellions, fall in love, and wait out the rain.
British pubs are messy archives. They don’t label their exhibits neatly or offer audio guides. Instead, they let stories seep into the walls and trust that someone — eventually — will sit down, order a pint, and listen.
As an Australian, raised in a young country still figuring out its identity, there was something grounding about that. Something reassuring.
The past doesn’t disappear. It just finds somewhere comfortable to have a drink.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it buys you one too.