The Fox & Hounds

Quaint Corner Pub in London Oasis

Ah, The Fox and Hounds, a nod to nostalgia if ever there was one; a refuge carved out from the concrete bounty of Sloane Square with more character lurking within its battered walls than in all the glossy emporiums flanking the King’s Road. You know you’ve stumbled upon something rare when the remark of “no blaring music” is factually made not as an oversight but as a proud proclamation – the symphonic hum here provided by the gentle clink of glasses and the semi-legible banter of buoyant locals. An oasis of calm it claims to be from the La Bohème of London's high-street, its décor like a time-warpy step back to an aesthetic Mother doesn't approve of but Grandmother would coo over, replete with wood paneling possibly hewn from the ark’s leftovers.

Behold, pints flow swiftly here, Olympus’ own taps perhaps farmed directly from their famed patrons; dogs welcomed almost equally as revered guests as stooped landlords, though likely far better behaved. However, lest we bask unchecked in its rustic glory, alongside those ale-tinted reflections, a shadow lurks; the raucous uproar some say percolates occasionally here is enough to sour even the nimblest Chardonnay, spirits dampened not by the finest Meister of the cellars, but the human porcine discourse spewing more insult than insinuation. To forgive these moments may demand cheap beer prices or just part of the eccentric charm, yet it remains a conflict unresolved. A splendid pub indeed—when you get it on a good day, The Fox and Hounds could be an illusory balm wrapping you in authentic England-on-display. When in curious proximity, certainly pop that pesky Taylors Pale Ale nerf if you've pals in tow, but steer clear on aching head days. — Penelope Savory