We returned to the homestead and readied ourselves for our overnight at Colin’s in Ross-On-Wye, about an hour’s drive to the southwest(?). We were both just a little nervous about meeting our mutual blogger friend, Stuart Goodall, the Ultra Toast Mosha God, with whom we had arranged to meet, finally, during my visit.
Before heading Ross-ward in earnest, we stopped at a Tesco supermarket to get a few things. I bought a jar of Picalilli and some Yorkie chocolate bars. Mark hit the ATM, and bought a few items, such as zip-close plastic bags (for my Picalilli). It was kinda fun to browse a bit and see all the different items in an English supermarket, and to notice which things were the same as in the States, which were different, and which things were entirely unheard of at home.
As had become our usual, along the route Mark and I found no topic that wasn’t worth gabbing along about until our throats were raw, and before we knew it, we were descending into the Wye valley.
Mark had received a text from Colin during the drive, advising us that he was heading off to the grocery for a few items, and what time he expected to return. When we arrived in Ross, we had about a half-hour to kill, so Mark decided to give me a tour of the area.
Ross is on the river Wye, and as such is a picturesque little town in a picturesque valley area. Mark turned down a narrow lane that, had I been on my own, I would have avoided for the assumption that it was a private road. Mark assured me that it is not private. There’s no telling how old these lanes are, as they are between ancient hedgerows that border all the farmland. The earthen part of the hedgerows rise up to almost the rooftop level of the Defender, and the dense foliage tops off a good two to three feet above, creating the perception that I was riding through a tunnel. Each road has a series of lay-bys to be used when two vehicles approach each other; one would have to pull into the lay-by in order to allow the other to pass. That’s how narrow these lanes are! Soon it was time to get to Colin’s, but Mark, having as much fun driving these lanes as I had riding, was now unsure, exactly, where we were, and more unsure of how to get us back. Then the lane we were on suddenly went private, as indicated by a couple of small signs.
The river Wye. I didn't have time to turn off the damn flash,
or get out of the Defender. But you get the idea.
The sun was getting low in the sky, presenting us with great blasts of orange and red in the western sky, but it also meant we were running out of daylight. Mark turned the unwieldy Defender around in an impressive 8-point turn on a sloping three-way intersection, and he backtracked his way out of there.
Very soon we were pulling in to Colin’s cottage complex. He lives in a former resort estate, renting a very cozy, little, two-bedroom terrace cottage. No sooner had he made me a cup of coffee and they had left me to watch Band of Brothers on DVD in the living room while they made some tea, than Stuart arrived from Bristol, about an hour’s drive further southwest(?).
For some reason, I had more confidence than Mark did that we should get along well with Stu, though I had room left in my conscience for doubt. But as soon as he walked into Colin’s cottage and we all exchanged handshakes and hellos, I was comfortable and at ease with him. Stu seemed quite at ease, too. Later, Mark and Colin confessed the same ease upon the meeting.
We chatted briefly while Colin fixed Stu a cup of (I believe) tea, and while Stu sipped his, and I finished my coffee. Then we piled into a taxi and headed into Ross proper and to the Man of Ross.
I came to understand the role of the pub while in England. Where I originally thought of it as strictly a tavern, it is most indeed not. Yes, a pub serves libations, and people frequent it to meet with friends, or for a date, but it seems many married couples stop in for a pint and to catch up on the doings of their friends. It is truly a family place, usually with a full menu available, and it’s a nice evening out. Unlike a tavern or bar, a pub actually closes somewhat early, around 11:00pm or midnight.
And so did the Man of Ross. Colin, Mark, Stu, and I took a table amid a good crowd in the rather small dining room, and Mark took our drink and dinner orders to the bar. We each partook of a pint of (Doom?) while we waited for our food to arrive. I ordered the sirloin steak from the specials menu, and I was chagrined to learn that the others all ordered the salmon. That meant only one thing: no matter how good my steak might be, I would regret not ordering the salmon.
We had a great conversation, with Stu now adding to the mix. As the youngest of our bunch, but probably the most well-traveled — or at least the most exotically traveled — Stu provided fascinating insight to our talk. He’s also a drinker to match the stamina of Mark and Colin, so they felt more at ease while they outpaced me 2 to 1!
Our food came, and where I hadn’t been sure which of the side dishes — peas, steamed mushrooms, onion rings, and chips or baked potato — listed on the specials board came with it when I placed my order, I was shocked to find that it came with all of them, and the choice of potato (I think I got the chips)! The boys got their salmon and, though it was very good, and prepared the way I prepare it, with the skin still on, and despite my embarrassment at how much food was on my plate (I looked such the American!!), I was not sorry I didn’t order the salmon. Mark let me taste his, and it was very good. But my steak, despite it being a sirloin, was very tender and tasty!
After we finished our meals, we retired to the drinkin’ side of the pub, near the bar. I bought the next round for my second pint to their third. We talked about British and American television shows, and the absurdity of censorship in the free society of the United States of America. Stu answered the challenge of a fairly attractive woman (who was there with her man) to attempt to pick up a folded (card?) from the floor without using his hands or touching the floor with anything but his feet. He came oh-so-close, but could not do it. I didn’t even imagine I could try. The woman then demonstrated, to the delight of every man in the place who had the rear view, that she could meet her own challenge!
Someone bought a round of whiskys (Jameson’s?), and I was feeling a little buzzy. Mark and I, having often discussed the sitting before a roaring fire somewhere with a glass of single malt and a cigar each and setting the world to rights, got no closer to the idyll than the Man of Ross, two fingers of Irish whisky, and these teeny, tiny little cigarillos that we had to smoke outside, because the Man of Ross is a smoke-free pub!
Someone bought a second round of whiskys, and I was feeling mighty fine. But then the proprietor of the Man of Ross started shooing people out, as he was trying to close the place. I was sort of hoping for a lock-in, which Mark had described to me at some point during the earlier days of the visit, but it did not appear to be imminent. So a taxi was called, we returned to Colin’s, had a coffee and a little more chatting, and then to bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment