Another day, another trip down to Dorset, another chance to walk through timeless Shaftesbury without BRAPA whining he needs the loo.
I see the locals have already erected a statue of the angelic Simon after his February visit.
No red carpet for me on my quick stop for flat white in ever excellent Coffee #1, but some lovely contours on the map and classic shop design.
Angola 76 may come a bit too soon for the tweedy residents of North Dorset and the handful of visitors asking the Town Crier for tea shop recommendations.
I could hear Si scream “Go back to the Ship” from his Cornwall Premier Inn (we were so close, sigh), but I was on a mission.
Goodness, Gold Hill is steep. I wouldn’t want to cycle up that with a loaf of bread like they did in the ’80s.
Sometimes a place just clicks.
From the foot of Gold Hill I wandered aimlessly for half an hour through fern and along winding lanes from St James’ to St John’s, and it was marvellous.
Underpubbed it may be, but Shaftesbury was for a while the best place on earth.
Till those beardies come down the A303 for the music festivals and spoil it all.