Westbourne (Bar)

“S’acre bleu! Je suis completely ruddy lost et ich kanne nicht mein freundes gefind.”

It’s ok foreign fella, for somewhere between the carnival realm of the Notting Hill and the moonstar Quarg 9 in the Outer Portobello Nebula lies a very Klingon, ney Continental, docking port that has more atmosphere than your average oxygen-based planet, and will no doubt make you some new ‘freundes’.

The Westbourne is all about nattering, and this arena of gabbling often sees summer spillage as the gastronautical masses leave behind the kitsch paraphernalia and wooden knick-knack-a-mania from within the pub to congregate on the adjacent roads in order to gawk at each other’s pretty, yet non-pretentious, faces and sip at their sun-drenched Belgian beer or Aussie/French/Kiwi vino.

There’s no need for a happy hour here, it’s always assuredly lively, but still retains a peculiar natural one-in-one-out flow.

Anywhere with a smug plastic pig positioned neatly above the bar has to be worth a visit.