BAR FLY
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The Spaniards stands opposite an old Toll House, and the two buildings form that pinch in the road just outside Hampstead.
An olde worlde pub (built in 1585), The Spaniards is part of London folklore: Keats composed "Ode to a Nightingale" in the garden, and Dick Turpin (right) used the upstairs rooms to select his highway victims (his pistols are displayed by the bar).
The place has retained its distinctive white-washed walls, black beams and carriage lamps. With a log fire and the day's papers fanned out on table tops, it's as close to leisured, rural drinking as you're likely to get in London.
A little too close for my tastes. It's quiet on weekdays, but at weekends The Spaniards fills up with the waxed-jacket brigade, all ruddy after a hearty ramble on the heath. With a large beer garden and car park, the place can feel a little like a twee stop-off point for tourists. But the food is fine, and there are many nooks and crannies to which you can retreat.
With its pipes-and-pewter atmosphere it's all very English... except, of course, for the name, which derives from when the building used to be the private residence of the Spanish Ambassador.
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