Yes, this is the week I had all to myself, time to put the Orkneys to bed and make a huge splodge of pink at the top of that Beer Guide map.
Light traffic means only 13hr57 minutes, or 13hr55 minutes if I borrow Mrs RM’s car. To put that in context, it only took BRAPA 33 hours to do GBG cross-checking before he lost his Guide.
On the short journey to Orkney I’d arranged a diversion to the two giants of the North, Sheffield and Manchester.
A rare father-elder son match at the Etihad (£17.50 to watch Champions League), and a mercy mission to deliver younger son some warm clothes. Yes, Matt has finally realised that Manchester can occasionally be cold.
While I waited for James to do whatever Computer Science students do, I did my usual “Take photos of old buildings that will soon be pubs” gig.
And found you some new street art near the station.
But I still had 20 minutes to kill before the
16:40 16:41 16:46 16:51 to Piccadilly, and could resist the Tap no longer.
It’s OK, but not a patch on Euston with its lesser used upstairs.
But having done the cask tick I could at least go craft murk this time,
and watch folk get progressively more irritated by my occupation of a table for four. We can’t all have friends you know.
Anyway, it may be quality locale murk but that doesn’t make Thornbridge keg any easier to neck in a hurry, so they just had to wait.
On the train to Manchester, Matt texted me to suggest a new place to meet for tea.
A place I’d never been. A pre-emptive…