October 2026. Buntingford. Hertfordshire.
The last time I wrote about Buntingford I got some right abuse for this line “One of the Scouse dads was burping loudly to impress his young daughter”. It wasn’t, in fact, his dad, it was his uncle, and he was, in fact, from North Wales, not Merseyside. These things matter. I apologised profusely.
In general this blog gets about one negative comment a year, mainly because I’ve captured someone in a photo who shouldn’t be there (see also : Coldplay kiss cam).
Like young Simon, I’m probably a bit more careful about photos these days, after the odd hour spent frantically trying to edit people out of blog posts while walking Welsh hills with intermittent internet.
This chap gave me a look on Sunday afternoon;
But once he knew I’d been living in that very house in Waterbeach six months ago that the proud new owners have just had beautifully rethatched he was delighted in the interest.
Mum and Dad would be delighted in the thatch, and the finials.
Quite a few finials in Buntingford, a market town of 7,989 souls in the posher half of Hertfordshire. You get cats named Gracie and cellos on bikes here.
I reckon I’d visited the Fox & Duck when I lived and worked in North Herts, before I started the GBG ticking mission.
There’s a lot to commend this community local, heaving on a Sunday afternoon like in the Commodores classic. A BBQ in the garden, gorgeous pub sign, Leeds v United on the telly, a joyous atmosphere at the bar with a great landlady in full flow.
And some low-key Halloween deccies compared to what to come that night.
Not the freshest Pride (seemingly drawn from the side room) I’ve ever had, but the pub was a gem.
Anyway, here’s the (rather dried up) ford that gives the town (half of) its name,
the bunting being what the locals will put up when BRAPA comes to town.
