retiredmartin

Sunday morning in Newcastle. Just time for a local breakfast and then head home to Sheffield, a phrase which still doesn’t quite seem real.

The west side along the A186 to Benwell has a touch of Hagley Road or Salford Crescent or ihe Wicker about it; lively, historic, good for lunch and bad for pubs.

It looked like folk had been enjoying their Saturday nights, with or without pubs.

Resisting the temptation of a Doom Bar and Full English in the Wetherspoons near the station, I picked the authentic looking Moulin Rouge.

We could have had a Full English here, but couldn’t resist the lure of the mystery Persian Breakfast which came with no description whatsoever. I always like it when you have NO IDEA what’s coming.

The budgerigar was competing manfully with Al Green for our attention, but gave up when the rarely heard Wet Wet Wet deep cut came on.

It was great; Hi-Vis patrons of all nationalities, coffee to stand your fork up in, enough flat bread left for tea the next night.

We had an hour to admire then Toon, and with it being Sunday morning no pubs to distract us. What a gorgeous city.

I’ll need to pop back soon enough, still got a few Guide pubs round the suburbs to tick, and hopefully the Crown Posada will be open by then.

And hopefully I’ll remember that if you pop down to the river, you might be only 200 yards from the station but the only way back is up the steps via the castle and Mrs RM will hate you forever for making her run for the 11:47 train.

But I won’t.