Does it ever end ?
This report on Wales, I mean, not EVERYTHING (that’s later).
The bus from Caerleon dropped me off in a sodden Newport at 3.30pm, and I suddenly felt wiped out. Dunno why, it’s not as if I ever do anything.
So, with apologies to Mr Murenger, I saved your pub for next time.
Instead, I bought some jeans from Next, snapped some more Newport art,
and trudged back to my digs with a bag of bread and Oud Amsterdam, having failed to find Welsh cheese.
Four hours later, I’d written two posts and read three back issues of the Economist. But you can’t come to Newport and not explore the local
wildlife nightlife, can you ?
So at 9pm I crossed the bridge in high winds and made what is known in the ticking trade as a pointless trip, a return to the Godfrey Morgan in manic Maindee. You can’t miss it; it’s the only building that’s not a takeaway.
Lovely and full, apart from the one table they’ve saved especially for me, apparently.
Not much evidence of cask, even at £1.49 (99p with voucher ?) for our premier pint.
All human life is here, as per usual. This is the only Spoons in the Beer Guide for Newport (it used to have four) and I love it. Lively but not rowdy, a civilised drinking place with no obvious food trade.
(The only reason that other pubs survive round here is due to the absence of music; the pubs across the road are all booming out karaoke versions of “Up Where We Belong“).
Shots, Bud and cocktail jugs rule on Saturday night. My Brains SA is the epitome of NBSS 3, which is fine.
Then a chap with a chicken on his head came and sat at my table.
And started taking his clothes out of his suitcase. I thought that only happened to BRAPA. Luckily he wasn’t singing the Chicken Song.
Anyway, that was me done for the night.
In the morning, on the way for the train to meet Sis in Brizzle, the drizzle persisted.