Not quite back home, this post comes to you courtesy of my Kentish in-laws internet, as I attempt to catch up with a blog backlog bigger than Bob Dylan’s back catalogue.
Not quite as big as Bob’s back pages, but I’d accumulated a fair collection of notes from the last week of August’s trips which I deleted on Saturday morning while laughing at festival goers doing yoga. Serves me right.
So, just some made up words looking at photos, starting with Richmond. The nice one, not the slum in London.
And it has its own attractions.
Pubs don’t appear to be the main reason to visit Richmond, though the branch rotate their lone GBG entry to make sure you do, which is fair enough.
No. 29 is a newish bar, and I like it more than you’ll have guessed.
Because they chatted to me. Wow. Lovely beer, too.
But the visitors on another day the traffic-scarred market place was packed were here for a funeral that I never found out more about but had dozens of bikers. Unusual hearse;
It wasn’t BRAPA though, he turned up at the weekend.
Anyway, must go. In-laws need to get to the dentist.