Pubs are keepers, protectors, collectors. Mostly of memories — walk in and there they are, behind the bar with the optics. The Angel, a pretty, black-and-white beamed Georgian place that stands tall beside the Thames, is full of them — there are the regulars here, the ones who only stop in before and after the Regatta, those on a weekend away.
The pub’s position is its everything, which is what keeps people coming back. Under hanging baskets blooming with petunias and begonias, benches line the waterfront, as if at any moment they might tip in. People have been known to.
