Easter

High Tea at The Ritz with friends of the Luks’, Mike and Laura Sanders. They were having a whirlwind tour of Europe from the USA so they took us out to our local haunt.

The next day we did our own whirlwind tour of the British Midlands and Wales. First stop Stratford-upon-Avon. Drew wanted to see if Shakespeare was home. He was unsure whether to knock or not to knock. Sorry. We had to.

The lock at Stratford-upon-Avon.

A duck by any other name would poo as much.

If beer is the food of love, drink on!

Wherefore art Thou, London?

Ok, we left the bad Shakesperian references where they belong. We’re sorry and we’ve stopped. Welcome to Wales! Old North Wales, that is. Not the good version! There were some pretty sights, though.

Here’s a pretty sight! With Drew blocking the picture…

We needed a destination. What better place than Llanddewi Brefi! Little did we know before we got there, it’s not much of a destination. This is the only sign in the village! (Truly, this is the only sign. The others have been poached by Little Britain fans)

No, they weren’t both Drew’s ice creams. Although he wanted them to be. This is Aberaeron, somewhere south of Aberystwyth. A pretty little seaside town we stumbled across. There was a nice pub that we also stumbled upon then out of!

Looking towards Ireland.

The very tidal harbour of Aberaeron.

At high tide. The tide was the fastest moving thing in Aberaeron.

Drew, being an old man. Peg called Drew “Gerri” for the rest of the day after he admitted his desire to have a butchers at the canal lock and rail museum near Bath. Such a geriatric.

Peg, falling under the spell of the museum. Drew took photos here because Peg couldn’t find anything interesting enough to take photos of so we cited “artistic differences” and got back in the car.

You’ll recognise the Pousties from earlier episodes of the blog. An entirely bad influence on us, which our livers take the brunt of. We got sunburnt here, too. It was great. Yes, we remember fondly the 2 times we’ve been burnt in the last 9 months in contrast to the sickly pallor of our almost English skin.

Rod and Fo Poustie, lapping up the sunshine.