I didn’t do a preview of August when I summed up July.
Mainly because Mum was poorly and it looked like all bets were off, but also because I hadn’t even thought about it.
In fact, until my Sis asked me about a trip down to Helston this week I hadn’t looked at my diary for four months.
Mum seems a lot more mobile today, and is desperate for Sis and me to get down to Cornwall to
resume ticking visit her new great-granddaughter Wren, named after a St Austell bottle conditioned DIPA I guess.
I confess I wouldn’t have chosen mid-August to chase the pashminas down in Cornwall, but it would be good to actually get to Tintagel and that tricky west coast for the first time in my life, now I have a campervan that can squeeze down lanes.
I think I’ll head to Devon, pitch the camper in an overnight carpark too close to a cliff, and see how good the buses are.
Look at all these gaps, made worse by the extremely long Devon place names.
August would normally be a month of football, music festivals and a mad dash to tick pubs that then drop out of the next Guide.
This year we wait till late October ’till GBG21 crashes on the mat.
So that’s nearly a dozen weeks to get my GBG percentage up to 95%; only 13.90 pubs a week. I reckon I know a good 0.90 of a pub in the Borders that fits the bill.
Scotland looks even more risky, and Mrs RM was keen to head round the northern coastline with me later this month and find Nessie, if not Bass.
If Scotland gets closed, I can always finish off the Isle of Wight, and party like it’s 1955.
And I still need trips to the Channel Islands, Man and Antrim, all of which would be pleasant places to get marooned on if Covid erupts.
Anyway, enough of me. Look at Duncan’s progress. Let him be a lesson to us all.