Only this blog takes you from Accrington Canine Club to Lichfield Cathedral.
The British summer came to an abrupt close yesterday, but a week ago it was glorious, which no will doubt will cheer the hearts of our American readers.
I’ve shown Lichfield’s position in the Midlands firmament in relation to Brownhills, as lovely as it sounds.
I guess Lichfield is well down the Cathedral City League Tables, competing with Peterborough or Winchester for promotion into League 1. I certainly didn’t have many coachloads blocking my photos on Friday lunchtime, which is good as I don’t understand Photoshop.
The approach via the Close is particularly gorgeous.
As with Ely, the lack of scaffolding is a real boon.
They weren’t even charging for admission, which just makes you more disposed to donate.
Anyway, a must visit. Just don’t go when they’re holding a business meeting on Brexit preparations in the middle, that’s my advice.
The stroll into town is no less inspiring.
I note that for the same price as that mega-breakfast in Bootle I could have 50 chicken wings for lunch in Walkabout, but sadly it’s keg so I amble on.
Pleasing architecture in the market square, with a sculpture of Samuel Johnson that reminds me of BRAPA pondering opening times in Chaldon Herring.
“Stuff your architecture, where’s me pub ?” I hear Mr B. Ore of Beer cry.
Well, here’s one, marked as Malt Bar on the map but now with a shiny new name.
This is a cathedral of modern café-bar culture.
Facing a ridiculously tightly-packed Spoons head-on, 55 Wade Street offers a more local lunch option for a fiver.
Somehow I turned down this lunch offer as well. Goodness knows what I thought could beat faggots and mash for £5.
Straight to the BBBs at the bar. Oh.
The white tiling and jam jars are the giveaways, aren’t they ?
I look blankly for a second, see the word “stout” on the busy homebrew clip and go for that.
“That’s just gone on Sir !” says the cheery barman.
“Is it good ?” I ask, feigning interest in beer.
“No idea, I don’t like dark. But I’ve heard good things” It was “OK”
“Where’s it from ?” I’m overreaching now.
“No idea. Somewhere local ?” Close enough.
There was more plot twists there than in a Kevin Rowland lyric, let alone Ed Sheeran whose (x/+/-) album drove me out after ten minutes.
If Dr Johnson had been here now, he’d no doubt have been able to define “craft” definitively, and also enjoyed the pronunciation of the word “musheee“, as a group of shoppers debated the big choice of peas with their fish. They looked like garden pea people to be fair.
Actually not bad, better than a B&K for lunch, but hardly likely to drag Paul Mudge over from the county town for a half.
The next one might do.