Today is her birthday
They’re smoking cigars
He’s got a chain of flowers
And sews a bird in her knickers
Well, Duncan forgot my birthday (22 December), but he’d bought the beer the night before so all is forgiven. The dull breakfast in the Iris Hotel isn’t (wot no laverbread !), but it was £26 (£29 for a sprightly Pubmeister).
The sun shines on the righteous, and I threw 55 pebbles into the bay to celebrate being a year closer to completing the Guide.
Then I set off for an afternoon in the Clwydian Range, one of my favourites bits of The World when the sun shines.
Henllan greets me with some street art that probably says “no crafty beardies here“.
It’s a plain and pleasant village of 750, unless there’s just been a wake that’s not reflected in that figure.
As a Fenboy, I love seeing contours and unpronounceable place names on my birthday.
Half an hour till the Llindir opens, enough time to soak up the sun, confirm the absence of micropubs and make a note of folk in the graveyard I’ve outlived (less than you’d think).
Mrs RM calls to wish me a happy birthday and ask me to bring her back a strong DIPA.
Disaster nearly strikes on the football field as I search for a place for a “comfort break” and get a thorn stuck in my head.
Not quite Terry Butcher levels, but blood seeps into my fingers and it suddenly strikes me that Wrexham General isn’t a sexy place to spend my birthday compared to, say, New Brighton.
The septuagenarians waiting outside at noon either don’t notice or are too scared to look.
The door opens, the old folk don’t move, so I beat them to the bar. Despite the sign, I miss my step. “Mind the step !” I shout behind me.
I’d call it “homely“. Sofas to the right, casual diner to the left, not much else.
The Landlady’s daughter is doing the honours on the pumps.
She does a fine job, even leaving off the sparkler for the fussy Englishman.
My birthday starts with a lovely drop of Pedigree with that sulphuric “snatch” you know when you find it.
By 12:15 it’s filling up and the bar resounds to the gorgeous Welsh language, which only lets up when I leave.
“Cheeerio now” they say. Aren’t Welsh people lovely ?
I miss the step on the way out, too.