An Odd Pub Crawl - The Lord Nelson

We continued our crawl at The Rocks, down by the harbour bridge. Now we thought we'd been to The Rocks because we'd previously gone wandering up the paths behind the Museum of Contemporary Art. This part of town would be a bit more of a hike for the average tourist. On a hot day, you'd probably stick closer to Circular Quay. As a consequence, it feels more authentic, and more than a bit spooky. The streets were wet and deserted, save for the enormous flying foxes swooping low. They were also badly lit, which left me conviced I was treading on cockroaches. You can almost hear the sounds of the people living and working here 150 years ago. Much of the area was cleared to make way for the approach road and supports for the harbour bridge. Lots of people were displaced, whole streets lost forever.

There are still some un-gentrified workers' cottages and flats and as it's on a hill, you get a great view across the working port of Sydney rather than the fancier parts of town lke Darling Harbour. A whole row of ramshackle workers' cottages stands in front of shiny skyscrapers. I need to go back with the camera.

A huge container ship was in dock, so big that we stood on the hill just staring at it. It was a bit like being in Southampton again, only with palm trees.

The Lord Nelson is a lovely building on the corner of Kent and Argyll Streets, built in the early nineteenth century as a house and later purchased by an enterprising convict who had just received his pardon. Still, once a con, always a con. He evidently couldn't stay out of trouble because he started selling liquor without a licence. I don't know how he escaped transportation to Tasmania, but eventually the place became a brewery. The main building is constructed of large rough sandstone blocks with oak beams and an oak floor. It looks like an old customs house with an extension. They brew their own beer on the premises and hold the award for the best hot chips in Sydney (hot chips means chips. Chips means crisps. You follow?).

Afterwards we walked around to the Pallisades Hotel, which promises legendary pork pies and a mustard machine. It was half past nine on a Saturday night yet the place was closed; the landlord had piled the tables onto the chairs and was brushing the floor.

The Rocks it may be, but it doesn't exactly, well, rock.