The Dove

Just what London needs - another historic pub claiming to be the city's oldest watering hole. The Dove in Hammersmith has been telling that tale since before Shakespeare picked up his first quill, if you believe the regulars propping up the bar. And yet, against my better judgment and years of cynicism about tourist-trap historic pubs, I find myself returning to this Thames-side tavern with embarrassing frequency.

Let's address the elephant in the room - yes, The Dove London does have that coveted Guinness World Record for the smallest bar room in Britain. Measuring roughly the width of a generously-proportioned sandwich, it's the kind of quirky detail that makes tourists squeal with delight. But here's the thing - while they're all cramming themselves into that novelty space for Instagram shots, the real magic is happening elsewhere in this deceptively sprawling establishment.

The riverside terrace, when you can snag a spot (good luck on sunny weekends), offers the kind of Thames views that make you momentarily forget about London's astronomical living costs. The river stretches out before you like a Dickensian postcard, complete with rowing crews and the occasional desperate paddleboarder attempting to navigate the muddy waters. It's disgustingly picturesque.

Inside, past that famous tiny bar, the pub unfolds like a wooden-beamed labyrinth. Low ceilings force tall patrons to duck and weave - a design feature that probably seemed sensible in the 17th century when the average height was somewhere around hobbit-level. The walls are stained with centuries of tobacco smoke (now thankfully historic rather than active), and the floorboards creak with such theatrical timing you'd swear they're on the payroll.

The food, surprisingly, isn't the usual phoned-in pub grub you'd expect from a place that could coast on its heritage alone. The kitchen actually seems to care, which is both unexpected and mildly irritating for someone who enjoys a good moan about tourist trap mediocrity. Their fish and chips manages to be both crispy and substantial, and the Sunday roast (when they haven't run out - book ahead, you've been warned) is actually worth abandoning your own mother's version for.

The beer selection rotates with enough regularity to keep things interesting, though they wisely keep the classics on tap for the regulars who've been drinking the same pint since the Blair administration. The wine list is decent enough, though let's be honest - ordering wine in a historic London pub feels somewhat like requesting ketchup in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

What really sets The Dove London apart from the countless other "historic" boozers dotting the capital is its stubborn refusal to completely surrender to modernization. Yes, they take cards now (welcome to the 21st century), and yes, they have a website, but the soul of the place remains gloriously unchanged. The bar staff maintain that perfect balance of friendly efficiency and subtle disdain that only career publicans can master.

Dogs are welcome, which adds an element of chaos I grudgingly appreciate. There's something deeply satisfying about watching a well-heeled Hammersmith resident's carefully curated outfit acquire a new layer of golden retriever fur. The pub's resident four-legged patrons seem to have as much claim to the place as the humans, which feels appropriately British.

The prices sit firmly in the "well, it is London" category - not outrageous enough to spark riots, but sufficient to remind you you're drinking in one of the world's most expensive cities. The fact that I keep coming back anyway is perhaps the highest praise I can offer.

For those planning a visit (and damn it, yes, you should), The Dove is nestled along the Thames Path in Hammersmith, a short walk from both Hammersmith and Ravenscourt Park stations. Book ahead for Sunday lunch, arrive early for riverside seats, and prepare yourself for the inevitable moment when you, too, become one of those irritating people who can't shut up about their favorite London pub. I hate that I love this place as much as I do, but here we are. Some traditions, it turns out, earn their longevity.