'I just don't think you understand'. I was quite confident about finishing Hertfordshire by the end of the wintertime, but these constant engineering works and Lincoln diversions are meaning 3.5 hour journeys to and from the south east, and that is IF you can even book a ticket on a train at a sensible time (i.e. 07:01 from York, 20:00 back home) which am generally finding unavailable. Boo!
But at least the cross-ticking hadn't been too cruel, okay so I need a third trip to St Albans, a second trip to Hemel Hempstead, a Stevenage BRAPA debut, and stuff like Bridens Camp & Flaunden looks tricky, but on the whole, I can't complain ......
..... especially on days like today, where BRAPA illuminati Simon Dewhurst had kindly offered to drive me around some of those hard to reach eastern areas close to his Sawbridgeworth stomping ground. Daddy Dewhurst was sadly unavailable, but I'm sure we'll see him again in the future.
I'd barely had chance to tuck into my Sausage n Cheese muffin and Arctic coffee breakfast before the first weirdness of the day occurred .....
We'd not even left York when an odd young lad with glazed over eyes just across from me, who has been staring weirdly for the last five minutes, suddenly says "oi mate, what time do we get into York?" I reveal the good news that we are already here, but he ain't having it. "Nah mate, this is Leeds" he slurs. I tell him I am convinced this is York. Eventually, his brain performs a full somersault, he says 'awww shit' and gets off just in time.
Cue much tutting and head shaking from the ladies behind, taking their kids on their first trip to London. I agree with them that more decorum is required from the younger generation, fearing he has definitely exceeded the BRAPA allowance of six pints + an ESB. He didn't look like an ESB man.
After much jiggery pokery at Tottenham Hale, where I end up in first class just because I think I'm entitled to luxury leather seats, I finally hit Sawbridgeworth where Simon is hoping the car behind him will be patient enough to wait until I've hopped in.
First stop, High Wych (pronounced Whych not Witch) according to SD. Big car park opposite pub, but despite being well gone 12 noon, the pub looks dead as a dodo. Noooooo!
Shut pub alert? Gah! Simon looks through the window at the ales to see what I could've won. Whilst he's doing this, I prod the wooden door with my finger end, more in hope than expectation and to my delight, it opens. That's better!
|No Si, not your dinner!|
|Too early for Death or Glory, I said at the time, see I can be sensible|
|Absolutely loved this table, though Colin claimed it gave him a cold arse|
|Wall of beer, grrrraaarrrr!|