THE ROMAN QUAY

Not so much of a pub, but more of a gallery where people go to express their thoughts; presenting their most intellectual and intimate secrets forever in "The Hole in The Wall". Here, the pop-art era has also spread to the seat covers… the anonymous artist thrilling all who saw his work with a truly stunning portrait!

As a light attracts insects at night, so this particular beacon became the focal point for about 90 per cent of the population of Dover's educational establishments at the weekend. However, the owners' anti-social habit of refusing perfectly good service has recently cut its popularity. There are rumours that a Quay revival clan has been set up.

This rather pleasantly decorated bar, set in the Holiday Inn, has its main claim to fame in the fact that it has rather strange opening hours; 12 noon until 1 p.m. and 6 p.m. to 7 p.m. only. This is due to the fact that during these periods the prices plummet to half their normal extortionate price, making it possible for all the citizens of Dover, and not just an assortment of American tourists, to frequent the place. This establishment is often frequented by lemonade sipping people who busily munch the provided array of peanuts and other refreshments at the bar.

Certainly the nicest pub in Dover proper; the place is set out so nautically, you begin to suffer from scurvy as soon as you enter the room. However, being frequented by all those souls who do not wish to spit on the floor, and other related Dover Public house habits, it tends to take on the packed quality of slave ships over the weekend. Here is a place for a pleasant and quiet drink in friendly surroundings without the botheration of a juke box and the like to disturb you. However, the nubian girl in leopard skins, who beats the drum during opening hours can become mildly tedious at times. Also, I'm not sure that Horatio would have approved of substituting the traditional grog for a double campari and soda on the rocks, thank you garcon!

This rather antique establishment seems vaguely appealing from the outside with a sign of the trumpeting king gleaming down with open, welcoming eyes at all passers-by.

Once inside it feels as though you have been transported back into the swinging sixties with figures immersed in beads, sheepskin rugs, patched jeans and long greasy hair saying "I really dig that beat man!" as they stare vacantly into nothingness.

A hotbed of revolutionary fervour, this place is often frequented by paunchy menopausal males seeking the true meaning of life and an answer to their identity crises. The beer, on the other hand is hoppy and well balanced.