Hall of the Mountain Grill.

 

After he’d got back to England Simon had spent a few days at his parent’s house. Just long enough to get cleaned up. But he’d still felt restless. As if he was still on the road. His old bed felt too soft or something. Also there were some obvious changes going on in England, music, clothes, something was happening and he wanted to be part of it.

He moved to London, crashed at somebody’s pad for a while, feeling out the scene before renting a bed-sit in Ladbroke Grove from somebody called Rachman. He began to frequent the pubs. That was where he met Mick Farren. Mick took him to Indica which turned out to be an art gallery with connections to a bookshop on Southampton Row run by a fellow called Barry Miles …a friend of Paul McCartney apparently. Simon asked him if he could help. Miles said sure and gave him a bundle of magazines to sell. ‘You can keep half.’ He said. Simon told him it wasn’t quite what he had in mind. Would Miles be interested in something he’d written about hitchhiking to India? He’d just come back. Indeed we would said Miles.

The article wrote itself more or less. Getting the part about Istanbul into International Times had been surprisingly easy. Miles had been very encouraging. Write some more he said. Tips for where to stay, where to buy hash that kind of thing. How about something about India? The overland route? But Simon is in two minds. His first effort had been well received, according to Miles, but Istanbul’s low-end tourist facilities had been overwhelmed. Such is the power of the press that apparently the toilet at the Gulhane Hotel had been blocked solid a mere month after publication. Simon felt partially responsible.

About halfway along Portobello Road is, or was, a café called the Mountain grill. It’s a working class café very popular with musicians and roadies (I was one of those, DH) who like to exchange gossip and drugs. Pills mostly, blues and dexies, but grass isn’t hard to find. The Bangers and Mash isn’t bad either. Good hash is still something of a rarity. Finding Red Leb for instance involves a mini-safari into darkest Westbourne Park where you have to take your chances with the surly looking rude-boys at the Rio.

So the Mountain Grill occupies a strategic, some might say symbolic, location where two worlds meet. Down beyond the Westway Flyover is Hawkwind country, Lemmy Kilmister’s end where things get seedy…down among the wheelers and the dealers and the basic riffs and rhythms. Up towards Notting Hill Gate you will be more likely to find students and weekend dropouts, trendsetters, entrepreneurs, assorted Jerry Cornelii, Lord Kitchener’s valets. Even some Old Etonians.

Syd Barrett wanders into the Mountain Grill.
“You look a bit rough this morning Syd,” says Lemmy, “A bacon sandwich will soon fix you up.”
“Really greasy. Wash it down with a nice cuppa.” Suggests a wit.
Syd looks confused. He feels more comfortable in Holland Park to be honest. He finds it more attuned to his delicate Cambridge sensibilities. But here he is in the Grill so might as well sit down.
“Has anybody seen my dog?” He asks, “She's a collie.”
“Today’s Special.” Says another wag. “Shepherds Pie.”

Through the steamy windows it is possible to see VW vans recently arrived from the exotic East. They are disgorging bundles of Afghan jackets, scarves, incense, natural oils, colourful bed-sheets Kandahar shirts, Moroccan leather bags, Tibetan prints, psychedelic posters, and tabla drums which recently contained mind altering substances. The fuzz are active but not yet equipped with sniffer dogs. Stalls are being set up in amongst the fruit and veg, the fake antiques and the cut-price crockery.

All this is happening right outside the Mountain Grill. Simon is inside transcribing the scene into a notebook. Discretely. He’s still not totally confident of his literary abilities but making notes has become a habit. If anybody asks him what he’s writing he mumbles something about the underground press. He’s noticed how the bands round here like to talk about being revolutionary but nobody turns down an offer to appear on Top of the Pops. Look at Mark Bolan. Hopping around on TV like some kind of psychedelic elf. Hawkwind haven’t been on Top of the Pops yet. Maybe they haven’t been asked.

Syd meanwhile, after much reflection, has decided against a hearty breakfast. Poor Syd. It’s all rather sad. One acid trip too many is the general consensus. Fried his brains. They watch him wander out onto the street in pursuit of who knows what strange hobby. Not even beans on toast can tempt him back from the outer reaches of the galaxy.

Simon writes…“The Hippy Trail is really just a state of mind…”