Friday. Time to take the campervan for a spin (not literally) and visit Curry Charles in That Dereham, the new Hebden Bridge (I say that about everywhere).
2hrs 53 mins, A57, A17, A47. We’ll be there by 2pm we told Charles. Put the haggis on.
The campervan wouldn’t start, would it ? By the time the RAC man had kickstarted our battery, it was noon and we hit what seemed to a real life episode of that TV series where old bangers smash into each other.
Accidents at the A630/M1 junction, the Worksop turn (spectacular) and Newark, plus several near misses as the part-timers return, saw us take over 4 hours to reach Breckland. Simon does that sort of journey every Saturday, of course, but he doesn’t have a back seat driver like Mrs RM hissing “STOP !” to contend with.
Curry Charles had been sent out on reconnaissance the night before, and had failed to report back on the mysterious flimflam79’s collection of bespoke treasure chests next to The George, each containing a copy of the 1975 GBG.
Oddly, the streets were alive with cars at 5pm; “Where are they going ?” said Charles. Away from Dereham, I guessed.
But there was badly a soul on the pavement.
A town that thinks it’s famous for Steven Fry and Todd Cantwell, but is actually renowned for having the oldest average customer age in any UK Wetherspoons (62), was the 4th quietest place under that sun that follows the righteous.
The OAPs who pack in the Romany Rye, normally sit here,
but the Ednas and Dereks aren’t follwing the Woo Woo jug into the garden, where the average age is 26.
I think we nabbed the last table, using the retiredmartin tactic of “Taking The First Seat You See“.
Enough business to be viable but not enough for the full range of beers, so Crafty Charles and Mrs RM get the BrewDog rather than the Oakham Inception, and I get a very cool foamy Abbot (NBSS 3.5) as Doom Bar is off.
It was all a bit dull, to be honest; perhaps my camera lens had smudged.
Anyway, lacings. You’re always impressed with lacings.