retiredmartin

April 2026. Sheffield-Grantham-Waterbeach-Southborough-Sheffield.

Another week, another slog down and back up the A1, this time with the added bonus of a day trip to Tunbridge Wells to take my Mother-in-Law for surgery (all well, thanks).

I’ve made this trip every week since COVID, and it gets tougher each time. Not so much the physical strain, more my brain being worn down by passing the exits for Grantham (and Newark, and Stamford) for the 300th time.

So I came off at the A52 to see what’s new in the birthplace of Maggie Thatcher, noting mainly that the Muddle to Nowhere is now a Miller & Carter. Where was the campaigning to stop that happening, hmm.

I parked up here,

and instantly regretted driving as I noted a bright red triangle through the window of the Beehive.

18 months ago we’d parked the campervan in Grantham, marvelling at the Saturday night chaos in the venerable Tollemache Inn;

That was a Saturday night; things hadn’t improved much late on a Tuesday afternoon as we stopped for San Pellegrino and salted caramel fudge cask (small portion).

Come on Grantham Spoons, it’s a disgrace. No wonder that statue of Maggie is facing away from the pub.

A more professional operation in Waterbeach, where we stay the regulation two nights to see Dad, clean the cottage, try that Chocoholic from Milestone in the Sun,

and have one, possibly final, kebab on the green.

You’ll not get a better lamb shish kebab with salad in the Fens.