Continuing Story of Cressroads

By the Selkirk Grace of the famed Scottish bard, a troublesome Borders’ clansman dubbed Cressroads’ Jock McBlogsbody for the duration of Burns’ Day was promised a next day second-helping of haggis with whisky gravy from the kitchen of Alresford’s Tichborne Arms.

A sweetener from its chef Francois Dubois, if the rising 69-year-old throwback from a line of border sheep rustlers was to demand no further persuasion to ensure his continuing blogbuster of the watercress capital of the world takes extended account of Burns’ Night Celebrations at the hamlet’s historic real ale inn.

But, more urgently, that the Arms offers the town hack a change of hostelry, after so long-standing a regular of Cressroads’ Bull & Bell’s last four licensed couplets – Bob and Nan; Sue and SS Corky; Cockney Nick and his Bett; Lyn and her Hollywood Brian – finds himself next in line for the order of the Chelsea boot from a changed to all but too twee, dimly-lit wine bar inside by far the smallest of West Street’s two hotels.

It becoming evident to Old Blogsbody that no amount of geriatric fawning to have his glass topped up by either a young Brazilian bartender or blonde Barbican barmaid in the employ of inn-comers balding Juliana and his Lady Cyn - a once upon a social time London deb come to double as her lanky son’s managing mama, amply able to satisfy their £75-a-night beds with a full-English - can save his unrepentant self from being barred for allegedly swearing his outrage at the couple’s failure to post for all to read their otherwise secret and unreasonable changes to the hotel’s morning opening hours.

But, really, what the blazes?

After a deluge of Irv-to-Cyn-and-Cyn-to-Irv e-mails rekindles the touch paper to confirm the lady is not for burning, the hour past nigh for Cressroads’ scribe to pack out the leads for his pencil and for him to want to up, up and away to his beloved Valleys of Aalana, Hunny, Jayne Babe as well as only daughter Keogh come to live and work in the land of her late Nan Nesta and wayward-ho seafaring Welsh Bampo Morris.

Throwing in three juicy rib-eye steaks bartered off honest Glyn-the-butcher

Blogsbody’s grandfather is remembered with family pride from generation to generation of Irvs for his salty tales of lassies in red heels at the quayside of every next port of entry waiting for their whitebeard of a Welsh midshipman to step ashore and pay one, other or all of them his heartfelt visiting respects.

Until, give or take a century or so, Taido’s favourite grandson leaves Cressroads behind him to want to include the Principality of Romps and Rucks in his worldwide blog.

Motoring north to Royal Berkshire where, in the wake of severe winter storms, snowploughs clear a thoroughfare for M4 traffic to travel west to Bristol; cross the River Severn by toll bridge into South Wales; and, once across the border, enable Old Blogsbody to speed up his door-to-door delivery of a gift of porcelain glazed by appointment of Royal Worcester to Queen Elizabeth of Alresford’s famed china and glass store.

A last remaining plate in her limited millennium edition of 250 featuring a reproduction of Terry Freemantle’s watercolour of Alresford in all of its floral summer glory. Displayed in the never-ending-closing-down sales of her Stiles of Broad Street store, then put to one side by queenly proprietor Elizabeth for the maiden bottom drawer of the ex-manager of the popular Arms at Tichborne.

Away from Tichborne, the chip off the old Irving family block is gone from pulling pints for Primmers to resourcing suited humans for a bank’s corporate office tower high-rise-by-Welsh-Assembly overlooking Cardiff Bay.

And, between times, the 28-year-old daughter of Blogsbody is found making home for herself and her guitar-playing friend Jack at a Graig on Pontypridd hillside cottage only 30 minutes distant by train from Wales’ vibrant capital city.

It is at the snow-capped gateway to the Welsh valleys that Keogh comes to sigh: “Bless him. But he tries his best. His importing to Graig my gift from Alresford’s retiring Elizabeth-of-Stiles – and, for paternal good measure, throwing in three juicy fresh rib-eye steaks bartered off Winchester’s self-styled honest butcher Glen Davies, Welsh-blooded and, who knows, but continuing to defy trade description every next market day in the old capital of England.

Tramping indoors an all-pervading whiff of something seriously unpleasant

“My surprise goodies were safely parcelled for my father, who art ever a daughter’s nightmare, to deliver intact for me at the finish of his five-hour, 124-mile, three-coffee-break drive to Graig, at the wheel of his 16-year-old blue racer,” Keogh explains to her workmates.

“But his automatic choke for a fickle finger of fate - combined with his failure to grasp that, come winter days and cold starts, he most needs to exercise patience - and allow his old engine to tick over for a full five minutes or so, before he attempts to drive off any place, came between me and being on time for surgery within less than the next 24 hours.

“After dad’s wouldn’t-you-know-it flooded with petrol, refused to re-start and demanded his fraught daughter seek instead to source the nigh on impossible sight of an available early morning in Graig.

“No-way-but-no-how, I soon all but despaired.

“Given a dozen failed attempts to summon one, and left hoping against miraculous hope for the odds to lengthen on my chances of overtaking the mounting loss of minutes between Graig and our arriving at Llantrisant’s Royal Glamorgan in time for me to be bedded down on its 07.30-hrs production line for acute day-surgery.

“As pater’s mobile ‘phone continud to distract his attention with text messages; and, not least, ones from the Yorkshire Ripper’s ex-Broadmoor psychiatric nurse, hospitalised for all but a week and looking to have to weather the start of a second all but unforgiving bout of pneumonia.”

“Hell, Jean! How unjust is that of your Bloke Upstairs, dad was heard to exclaim. Between failing to re-start the engine of his crippled Ford Escort, then returned indoors to the warmth of the cottage accompanied by the all-pervading whiff of something seriously unpleasant.

“Oh, no! As, between all hectic else that early Monday morning, I was seconds too late clocking the grim consequence of my father’s heavily soiled size-nine soles tramping indoors more than anyone’s fair share of what was dumped on the darkened path to his car by some loose hound of the Pontyvilles.

“For cretins’ sake, dad. Stop. Right where you are. And, hey! Don’t you dare move one-eighth of an inch further, I barked in all but vain - and, I wish, came round from the anaesthetic.”