So The Evening Standard is trying to whip up a bit of foam about a supposed Dartmouth Park Posse, which ‘centres on the white-stuccoed home of Ed himself.’ This ill-identified grouping are, it claims, ‘healing a party that has lost its way.’
Well, you’d never guess at such machinations if you stood here, at the valley’s rather bleak crossroads:
In fact, at a glance you wouldn’t be totally wrong in thinking that there’s nothing that special – and certainly not Prime Ministerial – about Dartmouth Park at all. Traffic clogs its morning streets. Urgent-faced mothers wheel children towards their place of schooling. Said valley of shops is disappointing.
And yet. There’s a cosy Village Cafe, unpretentious and comforting, as well as some useful local shops (arise, Jackson’s Bros Butchers!) and, for a nice sit down with a macchiato, Truffles deli:
For something stronger, the Dartmouth Arms (35 York Rise) is pleasant enough, with very edible semi-posh pub grub, although why show football on big screens (I know, I know)? And Mrs Kentishtowner always feels it could be candle-lit and so much more cosy (surely they’ve seen the roaring fires at the Southampton down the road?) Oh and while she’s having a moan (and boy, can she moan!) she would tear down that wallpaper, given a large glass of Sauvignon too many, too.
But, quite frankly, if it’s good enough for Ed, posse or no posse, it’s more than adequate for the rest of us.
