22 December 2019
Oooh, scary. Charles II was pretty much the same age when he died as I was when I tipped up on my birthday lunch in Bwlchgwyn, which is easy for you to say.
Scenic views over to the Racecourse Ground, where I saw Cambridge lose 5-0 in successive years in the ’00s (thanks @MattyWebber88)
More information on the village is available near the viewpoint, though I suggest that apart from Duncan I Am Bwlchgwyn’s Only Tourist, which sounds like a Reader’s Digest article from the ’80s.
Another gorgeous day. Rearrange the following words; “sun”, “the”, “on”, “always”, “shines”, “righteous”, “the”.
I don’t know what this says about my son Matt, who has been complaining incessantly about Manchester rain. It’s his punishment for drinking Punk and Shipyard in the Paramount.
I follow the tractor to the King’s Head.
One sign (top) suggests Hydes, the cheeky one on the wall apes Greene King,
But it’s a free house, a very shiny one. Mainly dining trade, but not a hint of reservations or pretense.
Lovely staff, cheery atmosphere and (it transpired) a great lunch.
As I always like to dine exotically on my birthday, I picked the liver and onions and mash, and found a table where I could eavesdrop on local conversations about the National Conference and identify the dreadful Christmas music.
The local Big Hand was cool, crisp and “left a kick at the back of the throat“. I actually wrote that; it’s part of my audition for Beer Twitter.
The Big Hand Alehouse in Chester is one of my last GBG ticks for that county, hope it’s this good.
I identified the dreadful Christmas toon as Jose Maria Chan, a Welsh quarry worker from these part, and set off to explore those very quarries with a song in my heart and a full tummy.
Wrexham/Wrecsam really in underrated, you know.
There is no finer place to see two ponies nuzzling up in the world. Except perhaps New Brighton, where I headed next.