ABSTRACT
I shall for ever be grateful to you, Mr. President, for starting me out on my crash programme of research by drawing my attention to a hostelry in Erith Marshes known as ‘The Crabtree’. I visited this inn but, owing to lack of consideration by the local justices, I was unable to refresh myself there. The inn lies near the Thames at the end of a long, almost deserted road known as Crabtree Manor Way. It is surrounded by poor fields wherein
The hungry cows look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot, inwardly and foul contagion spread.
