Spring bloomed for that was the weekend that was in Cressroads
Fairoak’s Bishop Graham with a fetish for stepping into his bathtub with a cardboard box wrapped around his substantial bared midriff for a soak and morning meditation - or that’s his story for looking to find and collect his every next day’s carton from the likes of the Tichborne Arms - obliged with a mumbled blessing of the plates for two of Captain Stewpot’s Sunday roast and fresh veg, after Blogsbody’s blind date was sparked into being by former editor of Private Eye Richard Ingram.
“Charming, so very charming,” the bogus bishop remains in bewilderment over the town hack’s exceptional good fortune in attracting so evidently a charming and conversational companion to his reserved Arms table for two.
“And, no doubt, Your Prominence will have noted and approved, a lady with a palate for real ale,” the two were to settle into a noon-o’clock-next-day pint of Palmer’s Copper in the Primmer Bar of the Arms. “And, yes. For me to suffice to know Dee is yet smiling, after she replies to an email of mine sent earlier today.”
Twenty-four more hours pass, and Dee does further email to exclaim: Sunday was such a good day on a number of levels.
On the prosaic level, from my point of view, all the practical aspects were accomplished without a hitch (journey’s a positive pleasure in the sunshine and less than an hour each way; no need to rush; no trouble in finding destination, parking; and only slight hesitation in recognising you!)
On the personal level it felt, in the best possible way, like meeting a long-time friend. The whole day was fun, interesting, relaxing and lots more positive adjectives!
On the location level, I know everywhere looks goodish in the sunshine but it really was quite special. Tichborne is picture-postcard and I loved Alresford: the Millennium Trail walk was the icing on the cake!
The wedding is in three weeks but I have no idea of timing or precise location yet. Speak/email soon I hope. Thank you again for the touch of magic.
“So close to my Welsh workplace,” Blogsbody’s daughter Keogh hears of Dee’s schooldays in the Vale of Glamorgan . “Or a posh match hereabouts to mineabouts in Hampshire.”
“Yes, but … Grimaldi … as in Rainier, rulers of Monaco … a Genoese family founded by ship’s Captain Rainier who … did you but know it, daughter … sacked Hampshire’s Port of Southampton in 1338 … and …”
” … And what’s all this got to do with the price of Sunday lunch at the pub your daughter once managed?” interrupts Keogh.
“Only that… one table over … the large round ‘un … was sat you’ll-never-guess-who.”
“Stunningly beautiful,” swears Arms’ Landlord Patrick, a well-schooled refugee from the City, who can’t believe Blogsbody - sat facing Dee for two hours and more - missed spotting and recognizing the coming and going of so regal a visitor to the Arms.
“We need to talk more,” urges his daughter.
“Tomorrow, Keogh!”
