...Sitting in The George the night before we are set to make our journey, I can’t help but feel we aren’t quite getting the full experience. There is certainly a lively atmosphere akin to an ancient public house- a Spanish tourist has kindly spilled his ale on my left boot- but it’s not feeling very Chaucerian.My spirits are lifted however, after remembering that somewhere near this coaching inn lies one of London’s ubiquitous blue plaques commemorating what the area means for purveyors of the written word.
Armed with our half drunk bottle of wine, one glass to share between the four of us and absolutely no idea where to find what we are looking for, my flatmates and I set out. With Zeddy spouting off Googled directions through my mobile, acting as some sort of poor man’s sat nav, we look like a team on a game show where one blindfolded contestant makes their way across a busy highway as a mate shouts out “stop, turn left, now quick, jump out of the way of that lorry!”...
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