It’s always exciting to enter a new
principality country, and the A49 (and a scary Roman road near Craven Arms) weaves its way via lovely South Shropshire to the Welsh border.
Mrs RM decided to have a sleep in Knighton car park, allowing me to reacquaint myself with Offa’s Dyke and a town of 3,172 I thought I knew but really didn’t.
At that precise moment I set off there were probably 3 million English tourists in Hay-on-Wye queueing for Quinoa, but I had Knighton to myself.
In truth, I’d confused it in my mind with Presteigne, where I’d been for a tick recently, and I’d challenge you to tell Presteigne, Knighton and Kington apart blindfolded.
How do I sum up Knighton ?
Quaint, hilly, deserted.
There were a few youngsters on the lager in Bank, and some ladies who Prosecco outside the Horse & Jockey, but there were slim picking from any Offa’s Dyke trail tourism despite the attractiveness of pubs like the Red Lion.
As so often, the Catholic Church stood out, competing with the Fire Station on the brutalist front.
Mrs RM was still asleep when I’d finished walking the bounds, so I popped in Watson’s Ale House/B & B, the inevitable new GBG micro.
The door was open, the A board was out, the sign said “Open”.
The nice man looked askance.
“We’re not quite open yet. Do you want a drink ?“”. Er, yes. This happens a lot (it happened in Cottingham that very week). Why not open the door when you’ve finished setting up the beers.
He then transferred by hand all my details from the sheet I’d filled in as I’d put it one the end of Tuesday’s sheet.
Never mind, I was still sitting in the corner with a lovely cool,foamy, malty pint of Conwy Rampart (3.5) at 16:00. #Winning
Some of you will have your opinions on those cushions. Best keep them to yourselves, eh ?