Into the Valleys, as the Skids would say, albeit in a slightly croakier voice nowadays than in 1979. It’s been a Skids sort of month.
As so often in Wales, the plainest towns have the greatest frames.
I make no great claims for Merthyr Tydfil, again without a Beer Guide pub to call its own in 2018. But it has a great park at Cyfarthfa, a riotous Spoons and a Boots where we acquired emergency formula milk for a young Matthew in 2002.
Matthew and James enjoyed the Brecon steam railway more than we did; these days the Taff Trail is the attraction north of town.
I had the little waterfalls near the Aberglais all to myself, a welcome but worrying feature in Wales.
By 10.45 the Aberglais already had one Old Boy deep in conversation with the Landlord on matters of great import. Pubs that open up early to give Professional Drinkers a head start on Gentlefolk Diners are OK with me.
You can see why it’s in the Guide with two solid beers and a weird one.
And you can see why you’d make the trip out here on a Summer day to enjoy your ice cool Carling with a view down to the bubbling stream.
The miniature gardens are nearly as good as my Dad’s.
Sadly, the beer was near undrinkable, and the flowers got an impromptu watering. I’m sure they welcomed a bit of diacetyl.
“Lovely garden” I said, as I left the Carling glass on the bar.