Saturday 1 August 2020

Wales Costal Path : Day 1 : 19/07/2020 : Chester to Flint





Although Chester is technically in England, for many in North Wales especially in the North East it's the biggest and most important "local" City and as such acts as a sort of unofficial Capital (hard luck Wrexham). There are many Welsh patriots that would argue quite vociferously and loudly about how important it is to have a sense of identity that doesn't involve anything that's over the border (pronounced to rhyme with Mordor). This attitude just makes the fact that the official "Wales Coastal Path" guide starts at Chester Train station, even funnier.

The Path is a fullsome eight hundred and seventy Miles stretching from the outskirts of Chester, along the North Wales cost, doing a full loop of  Anglesey, around the Llyn Peninsula and Penbrokeshire, skirting both Swansea and Cardiff before finishing in Chepstow (also in England)

Officially it starts right at the England/Wales border on the outskirts of Chester but with poor transport links, Mr P, my steadfast walking companion and I decided to get the train from Flint to Chester and then walk back to the car.

We're currently just starting to emerge from the lockdown and as such this kind of trip would have been illegal just a couple of weeks ago. We're now allowed to travel further than a five mile distance from our homes. There are still restrictions in place and a bunch of social distancing rules to follow but mostly things have returned to a semblance of normality.

We parked the car in Flint, Mr P having driven the vehicle and I impersonated Miss Daisy by staying a social distance away in the back. Having waited for the train for a while we donned our masks (a requirement for public transportation) and boarded. Many of the seats had "Please don't sit here due to social distancing" notices but we managed to get two diagonally opposed seats and travelled comfortably.

Of the few people in the carriage I'd say 90% were wearing a mask, that is until we stopped in Shotton and a group of four teenage lads got on ignored the signs, ignored the masks and sat close together at a table horsing around as if the world wasn't currently being ravaged by a virus.

I can't be mad. When you're that age you're invincible and all-knowing. It's only with the benefit of age that you appreciate your mortality and actual ignorance. Of course if they keep ignoring the mask order they may not get the opportunity for hindsight.

We arrived in Chester Train station which was super quiet and started our journey heading up to the canal and walking alongside it over to Telfords basin. It's an area that's changed significantly with high rise high cost apartment blocks replacing disused warehouses. They're very posh looking and although smaller they're probably more expensive than my house. I couldn't live there though. I'd miss the garden and I enjoy not hearing everything my nieghbours are doing. Some of the walls are so thin in these places you can a gnat coughing in a neighbouring apartment.

Allegedly there's a statute in a local bylaw that allows a "Goode and Proper Citizen of Chester to shoot any Welshman found within the town walls after midnight with a crossbow." It being just after nine in the morning I felt we were relatively safe but still kept an ear out for anyone cocking an antique weapon in our direction. It was mostly unarmed dog walkers and fishermen; fishing was one of the first activities allowed after lockdown, I suppose as social distancing is second nature to most people that actually enjoy fishing.

A narrow hole in the wall guided us down a Victorian terrace and out through a park and onto the path proper. It's a wide tarmacked stretch with enough room for three people to walk side by side. The River was low when we started and the muddy banks could be mostly seen as we strolled with the river on our left.

I remarked to Mr P. that given the anti-clockwise nature of the path around Wales there was a possibility that this maybe one of the few parts of the walk where the water would be on our left hand side. There was quite a full bodied aroma as we headed out of Chester past the sewerage works which belied some of the rather nice houses here on the outskirts.

The path ran straight for a while and then turned a corner to  the England Wales border and the official start of the Costal path with two marker stones as a sort of start line. Quite simple and thoughtful as start lines go.



The path here is so straight you could shave with it and there's little to do but walk, chat and get out of the way of Cyclists. Most were friendly and courteous and seemed happy sharing the path with us mere pedestrians.

 Although I do own a bike and am officially at 'middle age' I must admit I haven't heard The Call of the Lycra as Jack London might put it. I have no desire to wedge myself into ill fitting skin tight day glo active wear; making me look like a reject from a sausage production line tumbled into a child's painting set.

Of all the bicyclists there was one fellow who cycled towards us, straight backed cycling with no hands whilst in possession of a waxed moustache, ridiculous round sunglasses and a roll-up cigarette he was elegantly puffing away on. There aren't many more things wouldn't scream "I'm French!" other than wearing a Bretton shirt, beret and string of onions. Also doing all of the above whilst being on strike.



After a decent stretch where the only change was the distant towers getting incrementally larger we reached the blue bridge and crossed to the other side of the Dee. The path became more gravelly and wound along the banks of the river past a number of WW2 era pill boxes. Clearly the denizens at the time were concerned about a serious Nazi invasion of the North Wales coast. Although I'm not sure how far they would have got into some of the rougher areas of Flint and Shotton before deciding it wasn't a great idea and heading home. An army might march on its stomach but I imagine you'd find it pretty difficult to march if some shell-suited scrote has nicked your boots, medals and put your Panzer Tank up on bricks.

At Connahs quay we turned inland and spend a while walking along the roads. I imagine that the path will flit in and out of the coast as you can't entirely rely on the banks and the tidal nature of some of the inlets. Although going from a very sedate and pleasant river walk to the side of a busy road was a bit of a culture shock if I'm honest.

We passed the power station whose massive chimneys we had seen from the start of the path and found their road signs limited vehicles to 29 miles per hour. That extra mile an hour clearly making all the difference.

Eventually after following the main coastal road for a while we turned down a narrow walkway to cross the train tracks and past another sewerage works,(Yay. Smells.) onto the Flint Marsh. Its not a place I've ever been before but was beautiful with a wide vista of scrub-land and not a soul about.



The guide warns of damp and squelchy conditions but with it not having properly rained for a while the marsh was dry and springy under foot so it felt in places like walking on the moon. Good for tired feet certainly!

Over a couple of wooden bridges took us onto a gravel path and led inextricably to Flint castle and the end of our first days walk.




Tuesday 30 October 2018

Edinburgh 26-28/10/2018

A Wee jaunt north of the Border.




As part of our multi-year attempt to visit the capital cities of Great Britain and Ireland, Edinburgh was our next destination. There is ongoing discussion within the group about the viability or desirability of a visit to Belfast. One side that wishes to complete the list wants to go, the others are painfully aware of how often we cause offence and the ramifications of doing that in a country synonymous with the word 'troubles'.

However for this trip Bonnie Scotland was the destination and a relatively early start was required. The weather in Denbigh could be described best as 'bloody dismal' but as the car headed further and further north the rain died down and the sun shone, in clear violation of the commonly held assumptions about Scotland.

We crossed the border with no fuss and made it to a train station on the outskirts of Edinburgh where we dropped the car hoping it would remain on its four intact tyres by the end of the weekend instead of a collection of half bricks. The train was bright and fast and a scant eighteen minutes later we were standing in Waverly station right in the heart of the city.



It occupies a dip or valley right in the middle of the city that used to be a loch but is a fairly standard modern train station. However as you emerge upwards from the station the architecture assaults you on all sides. You've got the Gothic confection of Scott's monument to your right and the aggregated stone facades and hundreds of buildings leaning over of the left. It's quite an impressive sight.

We headed up the hill to the left on onto the Royal mile (past Viva Mexico) and turned left away from the castle towards the parliament and headed down a gently sloping hill to our flat above a fudge shop. A mere four flights of circular stairs later we let ourselves into a light and airy space at the top of the building which afforded lots of sunlight and views both of a section of the Royal Mile and the building site at the back of flat.

Taking a scant few moments to drop off the luggage we headed back out into the city streets. Edinburgh seems old in the venerable sense of the word. Lots of granite and stone buildings, sturdy enough to withstand the worst of the Scottish Weather. The buildings themselves seem fortified in some way as if the weather could become militant at any second and force a siege.

However in our incredible luck the weather remained bright and cold for the rest of the weekend, you could just about warm up in a patch of sun but as soon as it disappeared you'd be freezing again thinking about hot chocolate and roaring fires...

We decided to head to a pub that both Myself and Mrs Parry had on our "Must visit" lists which was back on the other side of Waverley Station.

PUB NUMBER 1 : THE DOME




This is probably the most impressive pub we visited. Housed in an old bank there's oak and marble for days and the titular Dome soars overhead in the main bar where we managed to secure a seat. It being but a scant two months to Christmas they had already bedecked the entire place in tinsel and glowing lights with wreaths winding around the stone columns that soared to the ceiling.

Having previously remortgaged the house, we were able to afford a couple of pints and cocktails  and although it wasn't the most expensive round of the weekend it came close. We used the oracular  power of Google to find "The Best Haggis in Edinburgh" TM and booked us an early table as by that point we were starting to get a bit hungry.

We were served at the table by a gentleman with a soft North American accent that I took as Canadian. (See the Dublin entry for our previous encounters with Canadians in bars.) However turned out he was from Virginia, he did say that he would usually be upset by being mistaken for a Canadian but with Trump being such a poor ambassador for the American brand he didn't mind so much!

We left there soon after and walked to the Cafe Royal which was super busy. We simply didn't have the time to invest in the process of

a) securing seats,
b) wading to the bar,
c) forgetting the order,
d) reordering the correct drinks,
e) going back for some nuts,
f) wading back to the seats that had been fiercely guarded by the advance party
g) drinking the drinks

with enough time  for our date with "The Best Haggis in Edinburgh" TM so we walked back onto the mile and onto;

PUB NUMBER 2 : THE ROYAL MCGREGOR

This was a relatively narrow bar with space at the back for tables on a slight raised platform. Having purused their extensive menu we ordered four flights of drinks, Beer for Mr P, Lager for Me, Gin for Caz and Whisky for Em.



The beers were fine and perfectly drinkable, Em's whiskys were varied and seemed delicious (with a little side dish of chocolate) but Mrs P won the day by having three types of gin with their own botanical's all of which were spectacular.

The Haggis came, stuffed in a chicken for Em, on burger for the Luddite (me) and the Parry's had theirs with the traditional neeps and tatties in a roundel lathered in that typical Scotch libation whisky sauce.

https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/9428/whisky-sauce
It was in fact delicious and soaked up much of that excess of alcohol we were feeling. A pudding was require nay obligatory and we tucked into cheeseboards and Crannakin respectively.

Feeling mighty full and in need of some of that sharp Scottish air we headed out into the night and onto our next destination:

PUB NUMBER 3: THE WHITE HART




The Oldest pub in Edinburgh (allegedly) and co-incidentally the name of the oldest pub in London (allegedly) as well. Perhaps they were part of some old-style chain of pubs, like a ancient Wetherspoons. By this time the Nightlife was in full swing and the bar was rammed. I utilised literally seconds of pub knowledge and specially sharpened elbows to get to the bar.

This is a skill I'm sure harks back to our ancestors hunting herds of wild beasts on the African Savannah. Spot the weak link and press forward to reach the holy land of the bartop. Then begins the delicate dance of getting the bartenders attention without coming across as an demanding arrogant twat. Here's a hint: don't wave a twenty about like a lace fan.

Having secured a couple of gins and decent whiskys and we sat outside for a bit for a breath of fresh air. As we were sipping our drinks the police brought out a lady and popped her in the back of the van. She looked as calm and as you or I would be going out to get groceries so I imagine this was a standard friday night for her.

Following this we started to wander home until we stumbled (literally) across

PUB NUMBER 4: THE WEE PUB




This tiny bar was about the size of a normal front room but the novelty was kind of ruined by the fact that the larger bar next door had bought the place and knocked a hole in the wall. This mean the Wee Pub acted as a kind of chillout room rather than it's own entity but was a pleasant spot to end our first day sipping drinks and trying to forget about the uphill walk on the way home.


Day 2

Woke at seven to the sound of diggers demolishing the car park behind the flat. Thanks Guys!

I realised if I got up and out quickly a I could make it up to Carlton Hill for sunrise so I threw on some clothes and kissed the oblivious Em on the cheek and headed out. I grabbed a double espresso at the nearest Starbucks and powered on. The weather was bitter in spite of being layered up so the best method of keeping warm was to walk as quickly as possible.

The steps up were hidden between two apartment blocks and steeply rose up one side of the valley that bisects Edinburgh, there are a number of impressive building around which I think are part of the Government but not the actual parliament (we'll save that for tomorrows early morning walk) and you pass around them to ascend a gently rising road that brings you out on one of the most spectacular views I've seen in a city.



The hill has a Parthenon style building and tower and affords beautiful views of the city river and Arthur's seat. I tried to take it all in as best I could in the freezing morning air. You get a real sense of place there of where you are within the city and how the landscape envelops you. I listened to Keep Yourself Warm by Frightened Rabbit which has a rising rhythm which matched the gently rising light all around me

*Cough* Ponce! *Cough*

I walked down the other side of the park and met Rob outside the flat he too suffering with itchy feet first thing in the morning. We wandered down Grassside seeing the empty cold streets where there had been full cold streets hours before. Our wandering brought us to The Museum of Scotland and The William Chambers Monument.

Statues - An Aside

Statues are a great way of levelling over-inflated egos. However grand and magnificent you build the statue, you know it'll still be shat on by pigeons. 

We walked up the street a ways to the Greyfriars graveyard home of the erstwhile Greyfriars Bobby who spent 14 years mourning his master. We discussed the fact that a cat wouldn't even wait until your body was cold before ingratiating themselves to a different family.

We headed northeast to see the castle in the dawning light before walking back through town to the flat stopping only at a Starbucks to bring caffination to the ladies we love.

  1. Caz - Latte no sugar
  2. Rob P - Latte one sugar
  3. Em - Decaff flat white {If by some collusion of circumstance it's caffeinated I would suggest running far far away and don't stop until you can't hear the giggles anymore.}
  4. Rob T - Double espresso.

After a quick refreshing stop we wrapped up and headed back out following the route I'd used a couple of hours previously heading up to the top of Calton Hill.



In the daylight you could see the firth of forth and bits of the famous bridge peeking up from behind the mountains. We took in the view and the cold air and headed down a different flight of steps. Walking through town we stopped in one of the many Whisky shops the city has to offer. A very nice gentleman sold Rob a rather fine bottle of whisky amongst the hundreds of lovely bottles that were there. I found a bottle similar to one I'd bought Em for a present probably ten years ago and it's value has Quintupled! In spite of the oppoutunity to make some cash we would have drunk it anyway as it was delicious! From there we walked to meet Rob and Caroline's friend Andrew who lives in the city.

Over haggis toasties and warming coffees he discussed a couple of places we might like to visit. One of which, he explained, got really good about 11 PM so don't miss it. The four of us exchanged surreptitious glances that said "Thanks for the suggestion but we'll be in bed by 11." Our theory is "Start early. Finish early. Wake up without a hangover."

After saying goodbye to Andrew we dropped the whisky back at the flat and headed to the castle where due to some foresight on the Parrys part we were able to get in for free! Bonus!



The Castle stands on a rock crop that juts out like a snaggled tooth over the middle of the city. Not having paid for entry we did a whistle-stop tour of feeling we had to glean something from every moment. We saw the crown jewels (busy and a bit bling for my taste), The great hall (Meh, it was passable) and Mons Meg which was a cannon that had been used in battle but was ceremonially fired once over the city and the cannon ball landed two miles away. They won't let them fire it at the inhabited city now. It's heath and safety gone mad I tell you!

After all this hard tourist-ing we deserved a drink so headed to

PUB NUMBER 5: THE DEVILS ADVOCATE



Which is a bar hidden in the folds of a side-street off the Royal mile. Unless you know where it is you'd never stumble across it. It's a modern bar but with that hipster theme of 'artisan' where the bar staff wear collarless shirts and leather aprons for a real-fake-authentic experience.

Anyway we settled around a artfully aged barrel table and had drinks.

Caz: Sitting by the Seine:
Ingredients: Henricks Gin, Absentroux, Dry Orange Curacao, Sustainable citrus soda, Peppercorn and mint.

Em: Idle on Islay
Ingredients: Bowmore 15yo, Cardamom Infused Hahlua, Noilly Prat, Elements of Islay PEAT, Hopped Grapefruit Bitters

The Boys: Beer.
Ingredients: Beer


It was lively but friendly and we got chatting with a big party next to us who were celebrating a birthday (we think, they were hard to understand as they'd been there for a lot longer and sampled the extensive menu). We decided the drinks were nice but it was time to move on. We walked further down the ally and ended up at:

PUB NUMBER 6: THE DORIC



Now this was an old fashioned old school pub. Wooden floors decent beer and had a genuine authenticity of a old drinking house that The Devils advocate was trying for but falling short. The walls were covered with old adverts and it was clear that this was a spot that people waiting for their train from Waverley station had passed time in for Centuries (literally).

We all had a quick beer in there and I was introduced to a beer referred to "The one on the left"due to Caroline's previous inability to pronounce Staropramen. (possibly due to too many Staropramen).

We walked up the hill and through a couple of art galleries (much funner after a couple of pints) to

PUB NUMBER 7: THE CAPTAIN




This was a narrow old style pub with a long bar against one wall and a raised platform at the near end of the bar. Down the far side there were a group of people singing and playing instruments very, very quietly. We listened for a bit but we as a group enjoy each others company and tend to talk in pubs. We also drink and occasionally sing but mostly talk. I can't remember the discussion but it must have got pretty animated as about about five minutes the barman came up and asked us, very politely, to keep the volume down as we were drowning out the actual musicians.

Thinking back on it now the raised area we were on made us higher than the rest of the pub and So our conversation was being broadcast over the whole pub.

Which begs the question:

WHY THE FUCK WEREN'T THE MUSICIANS SITTING ON IT?

I mean surely was made for folks to sit and play or stand and sing? Anyhow we copied Em's example downed our drinks, made out excuses and left.

PUB NUMBER 8: BREWDOG EDINBURGH

We arrived to find a busy pub with no real place to sit but ordered some excellent beers using my shares card. I'm sure it's just a token but I do have shares in the Brewdog Brewery which gives you a small discount in their pubs. Sadly none are near enough to work/Home to take advantage of so I'm always advocating for a trip to one! We found a spot at the end of the bar and found they were having a Dog Pawty - dog safe cake and dog beer for a dogs birthday. Now I'm not saying crashing a gods birthday party was the highlight of the trip, but it was damn fun playing with the dogs and sipping excellent beers.





We eventually found a table and had another pint or two before heading to Mama K's authentic American Pizza for some much needed grub and got back to the flat between 9 and 10.


Day final

It was the end of BST and I celebrated the Clocks going back in the age old traditional manner of sleeping in a bit. I got up at 7 not 8 after a really good nights sleep. Mr P and I walked down the mile to Holyrood  had a wander around. The new parliament building is impressive and very modern on the outside providing a real contrast to the old stone building that surround everywhere else. There were some poems written in the stone in a similar manner to the Sennedd of which my favourite was probably.




                           But Edinburgh is a mad god's dream
                           Fitful and dark,
                           Unseizable in Leith
                           And wildered by the Forth,
                           But irresistibly at last
                           Cleaving to sombre heights
                           Of passionate imagining
                           Till stonily,
                           From soaring battlements,
                           Earth eyes Eternity.



We walked past the entrance to the palace of Holyrood house which was austerely impressive and ended up checking out the Abbey Sanctuary that was being repaired. This was that was the traditional haunt of those seeking refuge from debt collectors and they could apply to have an indefinite extension to the twenty four hour sanctuary and therefore not be hung for owing someone a fiver.



They had to stay within a carefully defined 5 mile radius around holyrood park but were free to venture into town on Sundays. Apparently there was a trade in trying to prevent debtors from returning to sanctuary by sundown leading to chases down the Royal Mile as the sun was beginning to set.

We were interrupted from this historical revere by a enthusiastic five foot Scotsman. We could tell he was Scottish because he was wearing a lurid purple shirt that said SCOTLAND in an unnecessarily large font, also the accent, which was not helped by missing most of the important teeth for pronunciation. He was clearly at an advanced stage of refreshment for the very early hour and insisted on telling us all about his favourite subbuteo teams and teaching us the Gaelic for Welsh and Welshman.

We eventually managed to extricate ourselves and started walking up the hill only to be passed by a gentleman swigging a bottle of Tequila-flavoured beer staggering the other way. The name of the beer is Desperado and I can't help feeling he was. Desperate that is.

We picked up the girls, had a bite of breakie (the full Scottish for me natch.) in a cafe called wanderlust and caught the train from Waverley to Uphall station in Livingston and the car trip home.



Friday 9 March 2018

14/08/2017   THE BOYS ( AND GIRLS ) ON THE BLACK STUFF - The Mecca of Stout



It had rained that night but the day dawned cloudy but clear of actual precipitation. Considering the distances involved in the previous day I felt surprisingly sprightly until I tried actually ascending or descending stairs. Then the pain reappeared with a vengeance.

Chelsea very kindly taped my knee in such a way to support it whilst stylishly showing off the vibrant blue of the bandage. Being a well-known fashion ignoramus I churlishly hid it under trousers.

We assembled and caught the LUAS from Spencer Dock to Jervis and walked to the side of the Liffey to the Woollen Mills (a Orla Recommendation) where we had a delicious breakfast only slightly delayed by server cook communication issues. The cook didn't tell our server that he didn't have all the items we'd ordered until about twenty minutes after the server had placed the order. This faux pas led to the most furiously whispered argument I've ever heard. Gordon Ramsey could learn a bit about vocabulary and a lot about volume from these two.



When breakfast did arrive it was fantastic, I had some sort of Fishcake poached egg combo with the others ordering varieties of french toast, bacon and maple syrup. I should have had the much plainer penitents porridge but frankly fuck it. I had just run 13.2 miles...(strangely that excuse has a much shorter shelf life than you'd think.)

We LUAS'd up to James's and walked through what could only be described as bleak urbanity. The crew were starting to get nervous as I led them away from the tram stop and into what looked like concrete desolation with closed industrial units and narrow terraced houses looming over us on both sides.  Much scorn and dare I say banter was flung at me. My parentage and my navigational skill were both called into question, until the familiar Harp logo rendered in gold and black appeared on the massive Storehouse in front of us.

Rob P tries to hide his affection for the Black Stuff



I took their apologies with my usual magnanimity and aplomb ("HA ! In your face! I  told you I knew where I was going!") and entered into the organised chaos of Dublin's most popular tourist attraction. Having pre-booked tickets we didn't need to queue outside and ascended the stairs into a large hall where you could see to the top of the building all of which was crammed with those wishing to worship at the Mecca of Stout.

You enter and exit through the gift shop where everything you can imagine, and some things you can't, have the Guinness logo emblazoned on them. You could quite easily fully equip a small suburban family solely with items from the extensive gift shop although they might find the proliferation of black and white in the palette a little dull.

The tour itself was self guided and started in a gallery of moving portraits, praising the black stuff in a scene reminiscent of the painting from Harry potter. Which, in all honesty, freaked most of us out. It's hard to think of another Iconic Beer that would have manufactured such a sense of mystery and pride around it. Hard to imagine marketing a John Smiths Museum or the Hoffmeister Experience. But neither of them have put the budget of a small Mediterranean country into a 1 and a half minute advert.

He waits...


The actual brewing part was fairly similar to every other brewery tour:


MALT + WATER + HOPS + YEAST = BEERY MAGIC


The bits I found interesting were the advertising and the cult of Guinness. When I was last here the main floors were taken up with display cases full of memorabilia and relics of signage past. These have been totally replaced with interactive displays, moving signs and selfie points. (The otherness of selfies is a discussion for another day but surely the point is to be spontaneous and show where you are. If you're directed to only take selfies in these assigned spots doesn't that ruin the point of them? Also as I'm over Forty( Fuck! I'm over Forty!) I don't think I could ever really get the appeal of them.)

Needless to say we didn't avail ourselves of the extensive selfie opportunities and headed instead to the gravity bar for a much needed pint.
Llion remains unconvinced

It like much of the building was a heaving mass of people but we managed to secure both pints and seats to soak up the view. The Gravity bar is essentially a 360 bar on top of the Storehouse that provides a breathtaking view of both Dublin and the hills beyond. It's a spectacular place for a drink and the pints are, as you'd expect, smooth and velvety with none of the tang of old tin that you get from a badly stored pint of stout.

We managed to secure a couple of extra pints (meant to be limited to one per customer) through charity from a couple that disliked Guinness and through Caroline not having her tickets taken at the bar. She had waited to give the vouchers over after securing her pints but after thirty seconds of being ignored she wisely turned around and walked away. So her moral compass can be calibrated at precisely thirty seconds, (when it comes to free beer anyway).

The Four Stages of Guinness

We stayed up there for a few hours, drinking our Guinness before walking back to the LUAS an heading back to abbey road. we took a short walk up O'Connel street which was far busier than when we had ran past it yesterday and then the group split up to reassemble later.

Andy Katie and Llion headed to a bus tour of the city.

Rob G and Chelsea decided to pursue a few shopping opportunities

The Parrys and the Taylors, in a shock move that, no-one could have predicted, headed to a local hostelry. A nice looking place called Madigans on Lower Abbey street.

We had a pint.

We had another pint.

That then called for a toastie or similar bar based snack.

We ended up in conversation with a family from Waterford that had come over for the Hurling match that was played yesterday. They seemed very nice and I didn't want to irritate them with questions about the game and why they have 5 sets of scores instead of just the one.

Caroline and I made friends with a Canadian couple at the bar who were at the start of a European cruise. We were looking at the selection of beers at the bar and one of them was something like a Galway Hooker. Strangely Mike and Lisa (the Canadians) found the conversation hilarious and subsequently joined us at the table for a pint or two.



Side note: I have yet to find a person from Canada who I don't instantly get on with. Their sense of humour, honesty and healthy lack of pretension just matches very well with what I'd describe as a British sensibility in the best possible sense.

It was whilst we were having a healthy debate about one thing or another (in the manner of the best bar conversations I've totally forgotten what we were discussing (actually it might have been blood pudding)) that we noticed the skies darkening considerably and then the heavens opening.

Now you've probably got a picture in your head of heavy rain. This was more like a thousand buckets of water being poured on the street at once. The rain fell in sheets. The torrent pressing on you like a weight, drenching you with your first step out of cover. It was the kind of rainfall to make you consider where one might obtain a fully functional ark at three in the afternoon. It felt like it was never going to stop, as if rain was now the default setting and we'd better evolve some gills, pronto.

Rob and Chelsea came in soon after and being Welsh we all had of course packed raincoats and umbrellas. However they had got a fair soaking an decided on a drink to warm up a touch.

The other three came back about an hour later. It was still raining but the bus had sheltered them from the worst of it. They showed us the photos they had taken of the front of the Guinness storehouse had huddled tourists crammed against the outside walls where we had breezed past earlier on. There was a certain thrill of Scaudhen freud in seeing the tourists soaking when we had remained dry and smug.

Mike and Lisa had to go as they were expected at the start of their cruise and we wished them well as they set off for their hotel and several more 'adult beverages'.

There was a minor lull in the rain and we decided to risk a run to Temple Bar and Bad Bobs as it seemed as if they knew we were meant to be there.

We managed to get a nice table thanks to a lovely host who I then managed to annoy by ordering drink for everyone at the bar rather than through her. However she took it in good humour by snagging my seat at the table! Role reversal.

Decently grubbed up some people decided on a walk home and some stayed out visiting my second favourite (but best named) pub in dublin. The Oliver St John Gogarty where they have live music every night of the year.



We snagged a couple of seats in the crowded middle bar and sang drunkenly along to the bits we knew until it was time to catch the last LUAS home sodden and sozzled but thoroughly happy.


15/08/2017 -  DIPLOMATIC ESCALATOR INCIDENT

The last day of a trip is rarely a time for much reflection and activity due to my incessant need to be at the mode of transport at a stupidly advanced stage. I have been known to turn up for planes hours before I actually have to in a panic that due to some sort a cataclysmic event I might miss them.

However being a group like this means I feel less personally responsible (until things go wrong) so  having risen groggily and not too unsteadily Llion, Chelsea and I headed into the town one last time, in search of mementos.

The LUAS works really well but given that time is meant to be relative, the next train indicators are in no way relative to the actual time of the next train. It was like watching someone who never haggled before.

"5 min. no 3 mins no fifteen mins, 23 mins. okay 5 mins ( as a tram actually pulls up.)"

They weren't here last time I came to Dublin and they seem to be having a really positive effect but the tram is still really in it's infancy and they re engage all the lines that were decommisioned after the 70's. There are only two lines currently open but I hope that when I next go back there will be more and we'll be able to travel to some of the further outskirts of this great city.

One thing I love about the LUAS is instead of a warning klaxon they have this really polite "ding" which is so much friendlier!

"Ding! Do please mind out of the way if it's not too much trouble. We wouldn't want a kerfuffle now would we?"

As opposed to,

"AWOOGA! OUT OF MY WAY!"

Much more civilised.

Anyway the gentleman-like tram eased us gently to O'Connell street which as mentioned elsewhere is the main thoroughfare in Dublin. It's a double wide tree lined road that reminds me of the Boulevards in Paris or Madrid or the Unter der Linden in Berlin. It's highly civilised and without the total stranglehold that franchises seem to have over other major cities.

We visited a souvenir shop that was so Tourist-Irish it may well have been called "Leprechauns shitting shamrocks." but sadly wasn't.

The staff managed to deal with being surrounded by a plastic version of their esteemed heritage a damn sight better than I would have done and we managed to assemble our various Irish themed tat for export.

We found ourselves at a doughnut shop Rob and Chelsea had scouted previously The Rolling Doughnut and availed ourselves of their calorific wares bringing back a few choice morsels for the crew.




Once back in the dock area we walked through the streets then an industrial area and then a park to find a delicious breakfast at Kennedy's food store. It looked tiny from outside but inside there were substantial tables and substantial breakfasts to be had by all.

Couple of taxi rides later we were at the docks and aside from Mr Gotts nearly causing a diplomatic incident by going down an escalator that he had gone up from thus violating all sorts of international laws, we had a relatively peaceful if a little more undulating ride home on the wipe clean ferry.





Friday 22 September 2017

13/08/2017 - BANNED ON THE RUN



After a night pretty bereft of actual sleep I rose groggily leaving a sedately snoring Emma to her smug slumber. I'm sure the smile on her face was entirely co-incidental and nothing to do with the early morning start and stupidly long run her husband had forced himself into.

After meeting Mr G for breakfast, espresso and porridge and having Chelsea and Llion wish us well we headed to the other house where a breakfasted Andy had received his jam and therefore all was right with the world. The Parry's arrived downstairs sporting bin bags over their running gear. Apparently this is the easiest and lightest way to stay warm before a race and not just from the burning shame of being seen in public wearing a bin bag.

We wandered down towards the start line and we could see more and more people with race numbers (none of who were also sporting bin bags) and running gear, warming up or just stretching until we reached the toilets and baggage area by the edge of the docks which was heaving with all sorts of people.

There may be an assumption that all the people preparing to run 13.1 miles (actually 13.2 but we'll get to that) are super fit, lean and athletic. Now there were plenty of people like that there but that was by no means the default. There were people of all shapes and sizes and all ages preparing to take on the run.

There's nowhere to hide on a long run, you can't rely on luck or the other 'team' having a bad day. Whatever happens there's the distance, there's you and that's it. In the sports I really respond to, your 'opponent' is in your own head. Badminton is the exception but I play that more for the social aspect. Winning and losing are just arbitrary concepts to me. Playing well and playing with honour is far more important.

We rocked up to the start area which was on a stretch of road with the quayside on the left and buildings on the right. There were pens of runners based on the estimated time so that the slow ones didn't get too far at the start before being trampled by the runners behind. As the time ticked closer and it got busier we became kettled in as more and more runners arrived and the organisers blared motivational soft rock at us. AC/DC, The Stones, Led Zeppelin etc etc.



Side note: There was a runner there wearing a Go Pro camera. Why? What would you record two and a bit hours of gently swaying motion. When would you re-watch the footage?

"Shall we watch the latest Hollywood blockbuster darling?"

"Not tonight my love, I've got a real treat for you. Two hours of other peoples sweaty backs and an occasional out of focus Dublin land mark with a soundtrack of me swearing and breathing heavily."

"You do know how to treat a lady!"



The countdown started, the gun went off and... well, nothing for ten minutes as the pens ahead of us started to empty out. The motivational music seemed to loop and we were still just standing ther expectantly ready to go. Eventually the human traffic jam cleared, we were shuffled toward to the start line and then we were off!

The route takes you through the heart of the city following the path of the Liffey along roads usually teeming with traffic and people. It was odd to run past O'connell street which I've only ever known as heaving, for it to be empty and deserted was a strange sensation.

We ran as a pack for a while, (although we established that the collective noun for Harriers should be a drunk, as in a drunk of Harriers) and although we kept a good pace there was a bit of banter and japerery as we ran. Especially as we passed Caroline's squirrel...

We were all keeping together and our spirits high as we ran past the Guinness Factory ie. the actual place they make the black stuff rather than the tourist stop we were headed to the next day. I'm sure its a lot more industrial and serious than the adult fun palace of the Storehouse (actually adult fun palace sounds wrong so lets just move on from there.)

About three miles in there's a climb up to Trinity College as you run through the square and I think at that point things got serious. No more joking. No more banter. There was a run to do.

I get a look from people when I tell them about running. It's a look that says" If you must travel 13 miles why run it? Why don't you, in fact, just take a bus?". It's a good question and one I don't have a total answer to. I keep thinking I've stumbled on to the truth at the heart of it and then it eludes me again. I can tell you though it's not for the 'runners high' whatever the chuff that is. It's not for the Garish day-glo accessories. It's not just to keep fit although that is a part of it. I think it's knowing that you can. It's the confidence that comes from be certain that if you needed to, if you had to, you could run that distance and more. Being able to do something that most people could train themselves to do but choose not to.

At this point, after the college Andy was in front by 20 -30 seconds, so within sight, running with Rob P and Rob G and I was behind running with Caz.

It's worth pointing out if I haven't before that the Parry's and Mr G could easily outstrip us and finish far ahead but had decided to run with Andy and I to encourage us through this. I respect the hell out of them for that.

We hit a water stop and Andy grabbed a water and stopped (clue's in the name). I knew if I ceased momentum it would take a lot of energy and will to restart that movement so I grabbed the bottle and  kept the legs pumping as I drank and kept moving forward.

The rest of the race I didn't stop or consciously change speed and every time a runner would pass I'd expect it to be Andy but it never came. He'd kept me in sight the whole way we'd pass by each other on loops and he was always just behind until right at the end. The final hill, Codename:BASTARD just took it out of him.

The route took you past band-stands where there were a variety of musical acts, the rock bands were pretty good for hitting a running rhythm, the solo acoustic singer songwriters not so much. Their plaintive noodlings aren't really conducive to keeping a regular running pace. Although its not as bad as that time in Germany where there was a improv jazz band playing something in 7/8 time which was an absolute bitch to run past as your feet would subconsciously get tangled on the downbeat. I'm sure it was deliberate. Contrary to popular opinion Germans have an excellent sense of humour it just tends to the super-dark.

The road took us out of the city proper and into some lovely leafy suburbs where we were crossing pleasant looking streams and rivers before turning back and heading back toward the city proper.

Caroline and I were running companionably along recognising some runners who would run past and then drop back in an unintentional leap-frog motion. Having not exchanged a word with them there was a strange sort of companionship of familiar faces (well, familiar backs really) all suffering in the same manner.

It was at this point that the runners doing the 10K race (a half marathon is roughly 21k) turned off and we idiots, sorry half marathoners kept going. I saw many sideways looks as the thought "This could all be over" passed through a few minds.

The 2nd half of the run passed by in a blur of pain, gel shots (yeuch), and singing Kaiser Chiefs at the top of my lungs (I did indeed, predict a riot.). The run goes up through Phoenix park which is massive and flipping hilly as well. It's a beautiful green space located really close to the heart of the city much like Central park but far more massive.

After far more uphill climbs than reciprocal downwards slopes Caroline and I reached the final straight, about 300 meters at most. We looked for the others but not seeing them (the result of hitting Codename:BASTARD) we plodded together for the line. Ahead were a group of runners crossing together so Caroline darted left to go around them. I saw movement on my left and thought she was sprinting for the finish. So obviously I gathered what little energy I had left and forced myself into a not-quite-sprint. She sees me go and obviously starts sprinting! After two and bit hours of companionable plodding we finished the race looking like bitter rivals!





We legged it over the line only to both burst out laughing to the bemusement of the marshals.

We crossed at 2hrs 13mins 44secs for her and 2hrs 13mins 45secs for me as she crossed the start line after me. Lets just ignore the fact that if she was going full bore I'd be choking on her dust even now.

The others arrived in short order all crossing on or just before the 2hr 15min mark. Through his fatigue and pain Andy was incandescent that his sat nav running device registered the race as 13.2 miles not 13.1. which would have meant an even better time for him. Me? I was just happy to finish and to be finished.

After the race they throw things at you including but not limited to, medals, crisps, water, isotonic drinks( which they claim are specifically designed with your whole bodies needs in mind forgetting of course, the tastebuds), half a banana, sweets and non alcoholic beer.

I have to say that the brewing of non alcoholic beer has come a long way from Kalibur whose metallic rasping taste was almost but entirely unlike beer. This was the Erdinger blue which is almost indistinguishable from 'real' beer and very delicious it was too.

Laden by all the booty we stumbled out into the field to be greeted by the support crew as I pulled possibly my sexiest look ever. Phowar! There were a variety of bands playing and different stalls it was a real festival atmosphere, including the queues for the loos.

Suitably refreshed and recombined we headed down the hill and caught a bus which showed a much more sedate and pleasant view of the park that we had just trudged around.  It then dropped us off down by the river.

Little did we know that Dublin was hosting another sporting spectacle that weekend. Waterford were playing cork in the Semi Final of the Liam McCarthy Cup competition which mean the LUAS was rammed. Every tram looked like it was going for the Guinness world record for the number of humans that could fit in a confined space. It looked like some carriages had been vacuum sealed. The fans seemed really nice to be fair and everyone seemed in a good mood

Confusingly Waterford beat Cork 4-19 to 0-20. Why have one score when you can have two?

(I've just noticed a third score of 20 - 31 at the bottom! And they say rugby's hard to understand!)




However what this meant was we had no way of easily getting back to the house.

Some of us decided that what we needed after a long run was a good long walk. Andy and Katie, displaying more wisdom chose to chance other public transport. They eventually made it on to a LUAS and passed us apparently waving only appendages that weren't trapped by the press of bodies.

The rest of us walked through the city in the general direction of 'home' and settled in a place by the River called ely bar and brasserie where lunch and a few pints of lovely lovely Guinness were taken. They had the kind of wine cellar you'd see in the lairs of Bond villains and I'm sure we didn't quite fit in with our sports clothing and exhausted expressions but at that point a seat was a seat was a seat and if people were prepared to keep bringing me beer that was completely fine with me.

Eventually we wandered out and caught a tram the last few stops to home.



We ordered a veritable mountain of pizza and then collapsed into exhausted satisfied heaps prodding Llion and Katie to maybe rollerblade the distance with us at some point. Our efforts were not met with what would describe as total success.



Although Mr P pointed out the sound of me struggling to walk down the stairs was eeriely similar to the drum intro of Owner of a Lonely Heart.

rob falling down stairs

Saturday 19 August 2017

12/08/2017 - TOP DECKING - FOR FUN AND PROFIT


I can't help but feel this is is all my fault.


We're on board the Irish Ferry to Dublin, Rob G and Chelsea picked us up at 9:00 and a quick pit stop to pick up Mr Weller and we were away bound for Dublin and the half Marathon I promised to do at last years beer festival. It had been previously stated that when inebriated I tend to make grand proclamations and promises which I then deny all knowledge of once sober. With that in mind whilst at the Denbigh Beer Festival, 2016 vintage (heady nose, full body with base notes of chili and oregano) Mr Weller employed some hideous, hither-to unknown technology called a 'phone' to record my actual words...

Bastard.

(I'd also question my use of the word exotic.)

Whilst probably inadmissible in a court of law, in the court of public opinion I clearly didn't have a leg to (run) stand on. Having failed to squirm my way out of it  I found myself boarding the fast ferry to Dublin called the Johnathon Swift (I see what they did there.). The boarding procedure was completely painless compared to the hours of dehumanising screening and waiting and vetting that you are forced to endure in order to even get within touching distance of a plane. No one gave a shit how much liquid was in my backpack or what size containers this potentially hazardous liquid was in. Probably all due to change after we leave the EU and it'll be back to border guard with rubber gloves and less-than winning smiles. Walking onto the ferry as it loomed out of the dock towards us it's hard not to be impressed with the sheer size of the thing.

Once up the gang plank (check out the nautical terms...#research) we secured a table for exactly nine people, which was fortuitous for us but seems deeply impractical for them.



ROLL CALL

                Rob "This is all my fault" Taylor
                Em "Face of an angel, mouth of a docker" Taylor 
                Llion "Guinness hating Irishman" Weller
                Rob "Diplomatic Escalator Incident" Gotts
                Chelsea "Brand new passport" Gotts
                Andy "Enough of this shit, where's my fucking jam?" Morris
                Katie "You wouldn't like me when I'm Hangry" Owen
                Caroline "Come on, it's only another Ten miles" Parry
                Rob "Bad Bob" Parry

As the ferry glided smoothly out of the dock we played cards and strolled around the deck, venturing upstairs for some "Top Decking" (don't put that into google image search). The lounge was perfectly comfortable on a smooth crossing like ours but you couldn't help but notice nearly every surface was wipe-clean which implies not every sailing was as chunder free as ours. We ventured onto the top deck to re-enact that scene from Titanic, (the holding-hands-in-the-breeze-to-feel-like-flying one, not the ARRRRGH!-CRASH-SPLASH-SPLUTTER-DISASTER! one).


Andy purchased a small tub of jam as his pre-marathon breakfast, to be smeared liberally over toast. In fact it seemed like such a big thing to him it seemed churlish not to purloin the jam and hold it to ransom.


Of course if he didn't actually get his jam pre-run, he'd have thirteen point one miles (actually thirteen point two but we'll get to that later) and four days to plot a devious and subtle revenge that would see the downfall of all I hold dear. As I sank to my knees gazing at the smouldering ruins of what had been my life, I'd lift my arms to the heavens entreating God "Why?!" Andy would simply whisper "The Jam, you fool," and vanish into the shadows.

Or, you know, he'd punch me or something.

The ferry docked without incident and two buses and a very bored passport officer later we were standing in the middle of Ireland's capital Dublin.

Dublin has that feel that you get in vibrant modern European cities but still with the weight of it's violent birth as a nation upon it. The history of the revolution and the republic is still on every corner as the new builds stand shoulder to shoulder with the battled scarred historical ones. Berlin had a similar feel of a nation embracing the future whilst still being very mindful of the past. But there's  none of the warning from history feel that Berlin feels burdened with.

After a minor misunderstanding that led to us purchasing tram tickets for everyone within a one mile radius (we're very generous abroad) we boarded a still very new tram and headed out to Spencer Dock. A short walk later we were meeting our Airbnb host Orla, who gave us a quick tour of the house and map of the city before going. 63 St Marys Road is a traditional comfortable terraced house. The fittings were well loved and it hadn't been updated in a while but everything was clean and worked and it also had an espresso machine that I was going to make a lot of use out of.

We headed back to the others at number 7 which was more modern and quirky with a skylight that led to the upstairs bedroom (don't wear a skirt) and a massive kitchen that we designated our hang out place.
When we stay in hotels you always need a place to just chill out in, be it the hotel bar or a strangers front room (ask permission first). But when you have a house/flat there s already built in chill out areas which makes the whole process a lot less awkward.

We caught the tram into town and walked through what can only be described as the Bedlam of a Saturday night in one of the worlds best known party cities.



Temple Bar is an area just south of the river and everyone seems to congregate there to parade between a plethora of restaurants, fast food joints and Irish bars (of course here, they just call them bars ). We braved the crowds for a bit and then went to a place our hosts had recommended for dinner called the Porterhouse. Inside was busy but without the frenetic energy of young people desperate to prove they knew how to have a good time (usually by drinking lots and falling over).

We snagged another nine seater table, apparently three time three is the actual 'magic number'! (In your face De La Soul!). Looking out onto the street and the river it was a welcome respite from the mania of Temple Bar proper and we settled in for pre-race carb loading.

Although the food was excellent they didn't actually sell Guinness all their ale was either brewed on site or bottled exotics. It was lovely but not quite what we were looking for so we had to make a pilgrimage to one of our favourites from previous visits, Mulligans.

Way back in the Jurassic Era, The Parrys and the Taylors visited Dublin and found ourselves in this rather pleasant pub called Mulligans. The Guinness was good, the atmosphere quiet and the kind of place where you might find yourself in conversation with total strangers. On a cardboard hanger behind the bar where you would usually expect to see peanuts or scratchings there were five or six small tins. Looking closer we could see they were labelled as being Snuff. Being the adventurous sort we ordered a tin of the foul stuff much to the amusement of the regulars who being local didn't need to prove their mettle by nasally ingesting finely ground up tobacco. That kind of the stuff they left to the idiot tourists. Twenty fruitless minutes later we managed to get the tin open through judicious use of forcing the bastard thing and as a consequence split half the contents on the table.

The locals had done us a favour of not actually gathering around the table and pointing and laughing but you could tell no one was paying any attention to the TV when the free tourist floor show was on. We all took a pinch and snorted it to what can only be described as minimal effect. Oh well we thought, putting the tin away and continuing to talk quietly in the corner. About five minutes post inhilation Mrs Parry lets out a sneeze of the power and proportions that gets talked about of the weather segment of the News,

AAAAAATTTTTTTIIIIIISHHHHHHHOOOOOOOO!

This was closely followed by the roars of laughter from the locals who had been anticipating this very moment, from the second one of us said to the barman "Is that snuff?"



Anyway in Mulligans we found ourselves a small corner and had pints and avoided the snuff although I swear it was the same cardboard hanger that we'd got our from all those years ago. The Guinness was as I remembered, cold, refreshing but substantial and without that metallic tin taste you seem to get in most pints in pubs. They also take a while to serve it pouring four fifths and letting that fully settle before the final top up and serve.
This can take four to five minutes and allows ample time for conversation and anticipation of that delicious first draft. We had a pint each, I avoided the traditional additional Rob Pint in lieu of a Decent nights sleep. Walking home we found a squirrel mural on a building that Caz kept trying and failing to take a photo of.


We caught the LUAS home and headed for bed.




FOUND IN DRAFTS FROM A FEW YEARS AGO


Now I might be paraphrasing Richard Curtis here, but I think you lose an essential part of yourself when you travel by airplane. You surrender to a Kafkaesque nightmare of bureaucracy and procedure.

Stand there.
Be Here at this time.
Don't talk about these things.
Don't carry these things.
Carry liquid containers smaller than those you would ever normally purchase if the government weren't afraid you were going to become some kind of Heisenberg-like genius and concoct an explosive device out of Right Guard and factor thirty Ambre Solaire.

Breaking any of these seemingly arbitrary rules could find you forced to remove your clothes in front of a stranger who is wearing rubber gloves and a purposeful look.

So when you emerge out of this area of strangeness and fear into, say, the arrivals hall of a major international airport, your face seems to contort in a certain way. The fear is replaced by relief and a sense that things have at least started to shift back towards normalcy after the Borstal-like nightmare of the last hours (minus the shankings of course).

Phil had previously stated that no one had ever met him from the plane at Manchester Airport so I advanced there with a sign saying "Welcome Taylors!". Em and I had a plan that if the both of us went we would stand five feet apart deliberately not looking at each other holding signs saying "The Judean peoples front" and "The peoples front of Judea".

I'd stood there for half an hour or so whilst the Airport machinery did its thing and my Brother, Amanda and the three boys emerged blinking into the light. Jack waved at me and Hugh just started laughing (he does that a lot, I'm trying not to take it personally). On their last visit Owen, the youngest, wasn't walking so its great to see him developing into a little guy wandering around and trying to get involved in everything.

So far a lot of people have made the comparison between my Brother and I and Jack and Hugh, I was the second child and smiled a lot. Phil was a bit more serious about his fun.

Speaking of Phil it was great to spend some time with him as he and I went to pick up a rather nice rented Passat with lots of room for the kids. now I'm not saying we got lost from the rental car place back to the terminal to pick up Amanda and the kids but the route we took was certainly scenic and Phil and I had time to vociferously curse the airport road layout and all designers thereof.

We got to "Grannys" and she was waiting with big smiles and hugs for all the kids as is the want of Granny's everywhere. They lost no time at all in getting a football and having a kick-about in the garden. It's great playing football with six and four year olds as my ability with a football consists of being just about able to boot it in the roughly the intended direction. No one's expecting me to go on a mazy run on the right and swing a big cross into the box. If i can boot it to them they're happy which makes me happy. Phil and I used to play a lot of football in the garden, which was big enough to hold our footballing dreams of glory even if our skill-sets didn't quite match up.

Amanda looks really well considering her fourth is due in October, it's been great seeing how amazing she and Phil are as parents and for that matter Jane and Wez as well. I think maybe it's just Em and I that never developed that parenting gene.

It's sobering if I'm honest. I lead a very selfish life compared to nearly all the parents I know. It's not that I feel guilty about my life choices, alright I do feel slightly guilty, but it's more that I see the sacrifices that the people that I love have made and I see the development of these tiny people as their reward and it seems like a lovely way to spend your short existence. However I've never been puked on at three in the morning whilst trying to change a nappy so I know it isn't all sunshine and roses.

They headed over to the cottage and I headed home first to meet up with Em. Due to confusion over lifts and details too dull to go into now, Llions Mum and her greyhound Sandy came over to pick Llion and ended up staying for an hour or so. Sandy was a rescue dog and is one of the sweetest natured Dogs I know but having been a racing greyhound is trained to chase anything small and furry so we have to be super careful regarding bringing him into any proximity with cats.

Carter seemed most upset that I was booting him out and gave me a look as he slunk away that said "That's the last time you'll find a mouse on your doorstep, Buddy!". Sandy came in and spent the next twenty minutes try to find where the scent of cat was coming from but eventually wound himself down and collapsed onto the rug. Have you ever seen an old greyhound trying to lie down? It's like a controlled demolition as bits of the leg lever against each other and seem to crumple in sequence until he's collapsed on the comfy rug.

We discussed the house and various and sundry until Em and Llion arrived and we went out separate ways.

We took the back road over to Betws-y-coed across the Denbigh moors and saw the usual level of complete disregard for personal safety on those ridiculous roads. What is it about an open twisty road that brings out the inner Clarkson in people?

Anyway we found the cottage and it's a perfect match for them with a large front room for the boys to congregate with a garden that's entirely fenced in. We had supper whilst the boys set up a slate processing factory(?) which we helped with until it was time for bed for us all! We headed home over the moors and eargly waited for the next day when Wez, Xander and Jane would arrive and we'd have the Taylors together again.




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