Someday we’ll all have WiFi connectivity through little microchips implanted in our belly button at birth, but till then there’ll be the frustration of not being able to access my own blog via the Kings Park Hotel in Rutherglen, of which less later.
Parental Controls stopped me reading BRAPA last night; that’s what you get for writing about Little Budworth, Si.
So here’s a very short post on Appleby-in-Westmorland, compiled as my train to Ayr wobbles past the Laurieston.
I only stopped off the A66 for what we tickers call a “comfort break” (half a pint in, half a pint out), but the warnings about horses on the dual carriageway also reminded me the Horse Fair was ahoof.
Despite draconian parking restrictions at 6 p.m. on a dank Sunday, that’s not for a fortnight, but central Appleby was still buzzing.
My GBG newbie was up those energising steps, right next to the station.
It wasn’t buzzing, and a bit modern for my tastes. You don’t go back to 1974 for shiny back bars and gastro menus, do you.
Two more beers I’d never heard of, just like at a beer fest; the Ghyll was a competent NBSS 3, the outside banter about travel plans less inspiring.
With a Guest House expecting me by 7p.m. prompt I had just enough time to cross the Eden, avoid being trampled to death by inches, and declare Appleby the Usk of the North.
When WiFi returns, I’ll add those OS maps you Americans love.
Right now, I’m entering Troon.
Just back in Appleby on way back down the A66. Very attractive now the sun has made an appearance, though seems entirely geared to retired gentlefolk (says he).
Some recent pub losses, and a robust looking Robbies pub closed for lunch in half-term.