“Stop depressing us with pictures of burnt-out pubs on Sheffield industrial estates” writes A. Reader from Tonbridge (not Wells), at a stroke limiting my blogging blogging material by half.
I’m tempted to bring you daily updates from our garden,
which will at least please the cat-lovers amongst you (c. 99.2% of you).
Sunday saw temperatures of 14 degrees (that’s about 100 whatever the Americans use I guess) and Walkley folk head for the hills.
Bole Hill is one of the local honeypots, with rocky outcrops, swings and views over the flats at Stannington.
All it lacks is a pop-up bar and artisan taco van.
For flat whites you have to climb the hill to Crookes, where Noah’s Ark (probably Doom Bar) will be the last building dry after the apocalypse.
Another half hour brings you to the string of pearls that is Sheffield’s public parks, packed with children enjoying fresh air and exercise (“covidiots” grumpy Facebook posters).
This is the memorial to the B-17 Flying Fortress nicknamed “Mi Amigo” that crashed in Endcliffe Park in 1944.
Queues, queues, queues. It’s what we do best. I even joined one, at Nam Song, for some Vietnamese baguettes we enjoyed in Sheffield Cemetery.
Grief, it almost felt normal again.
And I remembered to take a picture of the closest dead pub to the cemetery, just for Paul.
I think it’s student housing, Everything else in Sheffield is.