Olympic London

Olympic tickets ? Didn't apply for any.

This is partly because I'm not interested in sport but mostly thanks to the constant warnings of transport meltdown. Travelling to Stratford is easy enough, even when I realised that it's the fake one near Albert Square and not the real one a few miles away on the banks of the river Avon. Getting back seemed to be a whole lot harder. The London games would be fine for Londoners with access to the underground system, for the rest of us it appeared to be a TV experience.

That's annoying as you don't get the Olympics set up camp in your country very often. Worse, it seemed pretty quickly that the transport hadn't descended into chaos. To cap it all, people I know kept posting photos on Facebook and flaunting their close proximity to the even as much as if they were wearing pearly King and Queen costumes.

All was not lost - not every event took place inside the Olympic park. You can't run a Marathon in there and neither it seems, can you hold a Triathlon. This event has to take place in Hyde Park where there is water and roads. Best off all, the men's event started at a sensible to time of day for those wanting to use a cheap train ticket.

My plan involved catching a train that arrived in Marylebone station at exactly the same time the race started, For the first 20 minutes or so the athletes would be splashing around in the middle of a cold lake - a bit rubbish for the spectators. By the time they made it on to dry land, I reckoned I could have crossed the capital to reach the park. I've walked this way before so had a pretty good idea of the timings.

At the station the platform was fuller than normal and with plenty of people who obviously didn't catch many trains. They were there too early and looked at everything and everyone with the air of someone who has just landed from Jupiter. When the train arrived, they all stood in the wrong place whereas us seasoned travellers know better.

Unsurprisingly, it was busy. I had knew the chances of a seat were slim but reckoned I could live with this. My drink was in a bottle, my paperback small enough to read while vertical in a crowd. The other passengers surged on and things were looking grim. I had spotted that there was another train in five minutes time so decided that the one in front of me could mop up the mob and I'd have a more comfortable ride in a few minutes.

This was a mistake.

The second train was very short - two coaches long - and busy. Being the sort who, unlike most people, will sit beside someone else I did get to perch and look back at the crowds in the entrances.

Our train gradually filled up at each station it stopped at and I realised what I'd done was swap a busy service that arrived in just over an hour for one that was just as busy but took 90 minutes. By the time I arrived, they would be out of the water and on to the bikes.

The passengers exited the train when it arrived in London in much the same way toothpaste exists a tube. Dodging through the crowds I headed in the rough direction of Hyde Park. Hitting Oxford street I knew I was close. I could even see the crowds.

Not knowing London particularly well and Hyde park even less it was handy that the Olympics was big there. Signs directed visitors to the free viewing area. You couldn't miss it to be honest, ringed with a 15 foot height green steel wall, a huge chunk of the area was more prison camp than green and pleasant land. Thinking I could walk around it, I started against the flow of the crowd but quickly changed my mind and found myself near the entrance.

Access to Stalagluft Olympic are involved joining one of many queues, being searched and not taking in any food and drink, at least that's what the sign above the checkpoint said. Outside, Londoners were picnicking to dispose of thier contraband before heading in. I didn't fancy this so carried on walking, assuming that my Olympic (viewing) dream was over.

Yet again, I was wrong. rounding the barrier I could see the lake. Heading toward this thinking that I could at least get some photos of the floating things I noticed the crowds. Reaching the edge, I found myself around 15 rows back from the track and just in time to see the cycling section finish its last lap. Result !

It seems that if I had endured the searches all I'd have been able to do was watch the events on a giant telly and buy the "approved" food and drink from the vendors. Quite frankly, I can do this at home by sitting in the corner of the room under the screen and refusing to consume Pepsi.



Being tall, I saw the top half of Lycra clad men on bikes (as far down as I wish to see thank you) and then all the laps they did of the lake. Well, the bit in front of me and some on the other side of the water.

Every time the runners came around, a sea of arms waving cameras went up. Clapping and cheering started and boy it was loud. One clever move was having the two British competitors at the front and both with the same, easily chantable name. "Brown-Lee" bellowed the crowd as the leader passed. Then some cheering for second place and then "Brown-Lee"all over again.

A commentary over speakers kept us up to date on progress although it was difficult to hear over the roar of three circling helicopters. I only realised the race had been won when the cheer went up.

Gradually the crowd disbursed. Focusing on the race, I hadn't spotted that the bank behind was also full of people. Nipping out during lunchtime to catch some Olympic action seemed popular judging by some of the clothes - and why not, you only get to do it once.

Following the sea of people, I headed in the direction I though Mayfair was. It's not a part of London I've wandered before and that was my plan for the rest of the day. Reaching the edge of the greenery there was a more poignant sight.

52 silver-grey pillars commemorate the lives of those murdered in the attacks that took place on the London Underground in 2005 - the day after it was announced that the city had won the right to hold the Olympics.

A group of 4 men decided that in their perverted view, God would be better celebrated by killing people than by his creations striving to achieve the best they possibly could. That and they felt it would allow them to jump the queue to a glorious afterlife which on its own seems a bit selfish.
On a sunny day, having seen tens of thousands of people celebrating the efforts of others, it makes you wonder why.

My Olympic photos on Flickr

Whitlocks End

Every time I go to Birmingham on the train, there seems to be a service leaving another platform running to Whitlocks End. This has been going on for months and made me wonder exactly what is so special about the place. After all, if every train seems to be going there, maybe I'm missing something if I don't follow suit !

A quick squiz on Google maps shows it to be a bit isolated. The nearest conurbation is 20 minutes walk away and on the boundaries of Solihull. Not a obvious choice as a desirable destination, but the name has a certain appeal.

The first choice the traveller faces is at the ticket machine. Leamington to Birmingham return costs a substantial £12.50. Leamington to Whitlocks End is £6.30. Same train, same route. Both trips involve going into Brum, it's just the cheaper trip requires you to change trains to reach your destination. If you were minded to do so, you could visit the second city by taking a train to Birmingham New Street and then not bothering with the second stage of the journey thus saving you 6 quid - swivel on that John "I'm going the smash the railways" Major !

Of course, I was a good boy and changed trains at Moor Street station like I was supposed to and found myself returning back down the line the way I had come from ten minutes before heading out along the "Shakespeare Line". The bucolic name hides some grim bits of city although these are quickly replaced by fields largely populated by horses.

Arriving at Whitlocks End station still doesn't explain why trains terminate there. It's a parkway style place. There's lots of space to leave a car, minimal covered facilities, a broken ticket machine and very little else. Certainly nothing to delay the traveller unless he has a skateboard and fancies trying his skills out on the zig-zag ramps provided for wheelchair access.

I had taken the precaution of bringing  a map so decided that the nearby town of Dicken's Heath would be worth a stroll. Heading out from the station, the first thing I noticed is that while there aren't many buildings, the area is home to most of the UK's budding football stars. Shirley Town Football club (Founded 1926) have their ground opposite the station entrance and for the weary traveller offer cafe facilities. Around the corner there are Highgate United FC, Monkspath Pumas, Leafield Athletic Football club and Wychall Wanderers Junior FC. Can there be a greater concentration of dribbling talent anywhere in the UK ? More than in the current England team I suspect.

My visit was on a frosty Tuesday so the footballers were at work or school I assume, certainly the fields were empty. Once past them though, I came across the greatest surprise of the day - an elephant.



Pachyderms aren't native to this part of the West Midlands. Neither are gorillas, gazelle or crocodiles, but that were all found on the country lane. Specifically at a garden centre called Akamba which specialises in hardy tropical plants (good to -12 degrees C) and full-sized metal animals sculpted in metal. The elephant was around 8 feet high - slightly difficult to load into the car but a bit different from the more common garden gnomes other people have.

Another 5 minutes stroll brought me to the edge of Dicken's Heath. The first few buildings look to have some age but only the first few. Almost instantly you are in to modern housing estate territory. The whole place appears to have been built in the last 5 years but in the manner of a modern take on the traditional village. Someone even thought to construct a barn conversion that I doubt ever saw any hay. A village green abuts the village hall, library and health centre. There is a reasonable shopping arcade. Food comes courtesy of Tesco Metro.

Apart from there there are two cosmetic dentists, one promoting a "Winter whitening" offer because gleaming gnashers are so important over the festive period. You can also get your hair styled by one of at least three hairdressers, buy a property from one of several estate agents and then drown your sorrow at the bill with one of the two wine importers. Don't think we are talking off-licence, one made a great play of the quality of the champagne they stocked. At least it won't stain your newly gleaming teeth.

There is a waterfront area complete with a customs house. The water turns out to be a sculpture in a square pool that looked ideal for sailing model boats. This flows down a stepped waterfall about 15 feet to the canal. Around all this were the sort of loft style apartments that have taken over any traditional warehouse found near real quaysides.

The customs officers, by the way, now seem to specialise in selling art.

Sitting in the Cloud Cafe, I pondered the place. For the life of me I can't work out whether I like it or not. On one hand it is a very practical "village". There is a lot of living space nicely arranged near to the shops and with a decent play area for kids too young to head off to the many footie clubs. All the basic facilities are there: library (afternoons only), parish council office, supermarket, plastic pub, or at least a bar and village hall. A limited bus service runs to Solihull and as I discovered, the station isn't too far to walk.

But there was something about it that unnerved me and finally I worked out what it was. Inspiration came from the special of the day - Chorizo Red Pepper, Butter Bean and Spinach Salad. That's not real food, it's the sort of perfect lunch that you think you would like to eat but instead opt for a turkey sandwich, a bag of crisps and bottle of fizzy drink. I'm sure it would be lovely, my carrot cake certainly was, but it's like real life is somewhere else, outside the bubble that the village exists in.

It put me in mind of Portmeirion, the village in Wales where they filmed "The Prisoner". Someone has collected a lot of random architecture together and put it in one place. The buildings are "nice" and certainly far more varied than any similar modern built place I've been in, but it's all so new and, well, plastic. Give it 10 years and I wonder if they will look as pretty. I hope so. It would be lovely to think that community spirit keeps the streets clean and safe, that the recession ends and all the shop units fill up with useful places to buy stuff rather than gift shops and those selling decorating items like Walnut and Weave.

I'm not hopeful. On leaving the cafe I wandered off without the soundtrack provided by my iPod. Suddenly I realised that there was no noise. None at all. This was due to the complete absence of people on the streets. In fact the largest group I'd seen all morning were some young mums in the coffee shop, and they looked like they were devoting a serious chunk of day to this. Apart from those running the shops, the place was deserted.

All the occupants were either abducted by aliens, or had taken the family 4X4 to the station and parked it in the generous parking. At least by the time I got back there, someone was fixing the ticket machine.

More photos on Flickr

Long Itchington Beer Festival 2011

"What we need", someone will have mused, "Is an excuse for a really good party. Tell you, what, have a word with that Royal chap and tell him it's time to make an honest woman of his girlfriend, then everyone can have an extra day off and bunting sales will go through the roof."

And so it is that this years Long Itch beer festival runs for 4 days, and the whole village is bedecked with more bunting than you'll see in the rest of your life. It's everywhere.

Anyway, this year there was a plan. Turn up early and go home having drunk some beer but not on the last bus in case that nice Mr Cameron cancels it before it arrives leaving us to hijack the dray that provides a pub-to-pub service for those unable to walk the distance.

First stop, The two boats for a nice Maldon Gold. Standing on the towpath in the glorious sunshine, you don't get much better. A single boat chugged by, people walked past - sometimes with dogs dragging them along and apart from two kids racing past on their bikes (one nearly ended up in the canal, there would have been a cheer), nothing to disturb the massed crowd of drinkers spilling along the banks.

Then a quick stroll through the village centre to the Green Man where I had been promised a free pint involved passing a couple of shire horses working the Hook Norton brewery dray. How nice it was to see these fine beast and how unsurprising to watch as a BMW pull up beside them, honked his horn and then drove off. The horses looked unperturbed but the dray man wasn't impressed. I'm not sure where the car ended up, and I looked out for it as we continued, but if there is any justice it was in a stone wall at the loneliest spot on the road network.

Reaching the Green Man and squeezing inside, the staff were very busy and so I decided to hang on and pay for my pint as well as the commemorative festival glass. Looking at the signs, I knew there was only one beer for me - Chocoholic.

The contents of the glass were dark brown and at first tasted of very little. Then, all of a sudden, there was a real taste of chocolate. Good stuff too. Not strong, but pleasant. I'll confess to being a little wary as this sort of thing can be a bit gimmicky but it's not bad. One pint was sufficient but definitely worth a try.

Wandering around the back of the pub, past a sign that said "Slow Children Playing" - handy as you know you won't have to try too hard to hit them - we found the pub garden along with another bar. This time I was determined. After waiting for the queue to subside, I enquired and my glass was filled with some Flying Dutchman. A really nice golden pint, all the better for being free.

After a few sips I felt the need to make a trip to the gents, partly for the obvious reasons and partly for journalistic purposes. After last years write up, I had been advised that the facilities had been refurbished. I didn't think there was anything wrong with them before but had mentioned an odd barrier to stop people falling into the urinal. This has gone to be replaced with a unit further up the wall. While performing a full test of this, another person arrived and stood alongside me.

"God, wearing this skirt really gets in the way." he said.

For some of you, these might not be unusual words to hear in a toilet. Me, I quickly finished up, washed my hands and left him to it.

All quickly became clear though a few minutes later. Into the middle of the garden strode St George, The Black Knight, a couple of other characters and a bearded mad wearing a dress. Think Snow White with a few days stubble. These were the Coventry Mummers who were putting on short plays at each of the pubs in return for donations and beer.



St George took on the Black Knight in a fight and was killed. A Doctor brought him back to life with a few drops of Speckled Hen beer. They fought again, the Knight managed to wrest Georges sword away from him and things were looking bad. At the last minute the patron saint of England pulled out a pistol and shot the Knight.

We all cheered. It's not Ibson but than you don't want heavy drama when you are in a sunny pub garden drinking beer do you ?

As well as checking out the toilets, I'd been recommended toward the Noodle Bar in front of the pub. This was a good move - the cardboard box of freshly cooked sweet & sour chicken noodles was delicious. I did try with the chopsticks but quickly reverted to the wooden fork instead.

You know what it's like though. You have a Chinese meal and a few minutes later you fancy another one. We wandered back to the Harvester where I bought some Liemass Fruit beer. Pricey at over a fiver a pint but since it contains fruit it must be healthy. Mind you I think Jaffa Cakes count as one of your "five a day" so I might not be any more reliable than "Dr" Gillian McKeef on this score. The colour was a lovely red and it tasted nice.

It also made the idea accompaniment for a Water Buffalo burger. The meat is finer textured than normal beef, but otherwise I'll be honest and admit I couldn't really tell the difference. Perhaps less ketchup would have helped my palate ! Nice though and this year I didn't manage to get it all over my shirt which was a bonus.

The pub car park/garden was busy. In the corner were some of the local youth who provided entertainment for those who spotted them. One wearing florescent sunglasses managed to accidentally snap the leg off his metal char - the ground isn't level and I think he tried leaning back on it. For the rest of the time we were there one or other of them could be seen perched on it concentrating hard trying to pretend that 3 legs was as good as 4 so the landlord didn't spot them.

Finally, with the sun setting it was off the Buck and Bell. Our timing was excellent as we managed to get the drinks just before the beer ran out and customers were greeted by pumps with no labels and a cry that the barrels were being changed. My final pint of May Queen was light and refreshing but it's delivery from so near the bottom of the cask might have strengthened the flowery/washing up liquid taste a bit, something I can never decide if I like or not - for at least one pint anyway ! Still, at least we were inside as the temperature dropped and the place was quiet apart from the huge scrum on the road at the front. It's not often the biggest crowd is on the road.

Another good event. Lots of nice beer, too much to drink in a single day anyway. As the T-shirt says, Same again next year please !

See all my photos including every pint and bite here.

Visit the official beer festival website

Going down to Liverpool, to do nothing

This trip started like many others. I spotted an advert by London Midland Trains for a £10 travelcard covering trips to anywhere on their network and though, "I fancy a bit of that".

A quick look at the website confirmed two things. The first was that the furthest I could go on such a ticket was Liverpool. Obviously you don't want to go a couple of miles do you ? No matter where the end of the line is, that is the place to go.

The second was that while in theory, Leamington Spa sees this companies trains, in truth I needed to go to Birmingham or even Coventry to get on board.

So I bought my day ticket online and then picked up a ticket to Brum for nearly as much. I wasn't too worried about this as the total day out would cost less than 20 quid. That's if you ignore the delicious chocolate muffin I knew I'd be buying at New Street anyway. Well, you've got to do it. There might not be food shops in the north you know...

Standing on the platform at New Street, the train to the 'pewel was late. 10.36 comes and goes with no sign of transport. We were treated to announcements that the platform had changed, to the one we were all standing on, every 5 minutes. I don't know if the refurbishments have affected the tannoy yet but the things seemed louder and even more annoying than usual.

A train arrived at 10.54 and the passengers were disgorged onto the platform. The announcements then changed to inform us that if we wanted to go anywhere, we had to get on the "front set". That's not the handiest thing to tell us in the world since how the heck are you supposed to tell which IS the front set ? Once upon a time trains had engines, even ones powered by steam, at the front making things easy for the non-technical passenger. Now both ends look the same and the only way to work it out is to guess which way the train will go - not easy at New Street thanks to what are termed "bi-directional platforms", basically they all swing either way.

Apart from this, looking at the crowds attempting to board, I had a funny feeling that any trip would be spent standing up. A quick look at the timetable showed that the 10.36 departure would be followed by an 11.01 but plans to use this were scuppered as soon as I checked with the platform staff. It seems that London Midland Trains is having staff difficulties and their advice was "If you see a train, get on it. We probably don't have a driver for the 11 o'clock one". Presumably they have trains dumped all over the country due to lack of staff !

As it happens I managed to bag a seat and enjoyed the trip. There was a good book in my bag, a fully charged iPod for music and yummy muffin goodness. There was also a safety sign in front of me that some idiot designer sitting in front of his giant screen Macintosh computer had decided would be enhanced if all the capitals were expunged from the text. Now maybe I'm getting old but had I been in possession of a marker pen, I'd probably have fixed this. How abandoning one of the most basic rules of punctuation is supposed to help people beats me. Presumably this was done to appear "modern" in the same way 50 year olds wearing clothes designed for teenagers works so well.

Liverpool Lime Street station is very impressive. A proper overall arched roof tells you that you are arriving in a seriously prosperous city, or at least one that wanted to tell you it was.

On the concourse I was pleased to see a statue of Liverpool's greatest son. No, not the bloody Beatles who are everywhere else - for half an hour the announcement on the train had informed us we would soon be at "Liverpool South Parkway for John Lennon International Airport", so called because when this great son of the 'pool got some money it was the first place he went - but Ken Dodd. Yes, a life size (I've met him, it is) bronze man with tickling stick and a bag with a diddyman sticking out of it.

As I say, the Beatles are everywhere in Liverpool and so I'm not going to mention them again. If you want more, try this statue that looks nothing like them.

More excitingly, the other bit of civic art you see a lot of is the Superlambanana. This really ought to be the sort of arty toss that I hate but the idea of grafting a banana on the back of the lamb looks so funny that even I can't help liking it. This was good as for the next couple of days I had a touretes like urge to say "superlambanana" all the time.

My plan for the day, such as it was involved a trip to a local model shop, the maritime museum and perhaps if I could fit it in, wandering over to see Paddy's Wigwam. The first required a bus trip so I wandered into the centre and was distracted by spotting a Wimpy Bar. I can't resist a chance to see how we got it all so wrong with fast food and still do.

The staff were friendly, the burger can in a wholemeal bun (why ? It's not health food) and arrived with a knife and fork ten minutes after I ordered it. Slower, and it didn't taste as good as a McDonalds either. The Brown Derby, a ring doughnut with a swirl of ice cream and nuts on top was nice but in a traditional way. God knows who thought it up but I for one am glad they did.

Heading to the bus stop I was confused. I mean I recon on being pretty good with public transport but finding the appropriate stop defeated me. I found one that looked like it would do but according to the timetable, the thing only ran twice a day and before 8.30am at that. Asking in the travel centre didn't help much. Yes it ran but I wanted an 83A not an 83C. Despite scouring all the stops, not easy as they are either side of a difficult to cross road, helped not at all. By the time I'd wasted half an hour I was half way to the docks so I gave up on my plan and headed for the museum.

The stroll to the Albert Dock takes the visitor through the shopping centre and shows just what a modern city Liverpool is. The stores are large and brightly lit. Many wouldn't look out of place as flagship stores on Oxford Street and if the local population is managing to buy enough stuff to keep them in business then the city has shrugged off it's reputation for poor employment and wages.

Albert Dock also shows the changes in Liverpool. Where once stevedores would have hefted loads on and off ships you now find trendy wine bars and restaurants. Being a Monday, these were pretty empty but I'm sure at the weekend the cobbles throng with revellers. Another feature of Monday is that Tate Liverpool is shut so not arty fix for me then.

Talking of cobbles, most of the dockside seemed to be being dug up for one reason or another. Along with a huge shiny black monolith of a building, the museum of Liverpool is under construction. I'm not sure there are many cities with the chutzpa to put such a huge building up in such a prime location, a few yards from the iconic Liver Building, to celebrate the history of the place. All the work had turned finding your way to the museum into a maze of dead ends which at least wore off the burger and most of the pudding.

While Monday might not be the best day for visiting and getting in to the Tate, it's a fantastic choice if you want to enjoy a museum without dodging screaming kits who've been dragged in there by well meaning adults. It was so quiet that I was even able to try the customs boat simulator without an audience. Try that in the school holidays and you'd never get the near the controls for kids throwing them around with little or no interest in the results.

As a boat modeller, I've an interest in things ship-shape and there is plenty to look at with models of all sorts of vessels in glass cases. The museum is lucky in that ship buyers would normally commission a model of their purchase from the yard building it. These lived in board rooms and offices and so survived to end up on display for future generations. Thus you get different types of ship and different liveries as well. Nowadays we are used to a very small number of companies running things but years ago there were a huge number of lines. It's not just British stuff either, we had an empire once and mach of the output from this came though Liverpool and so is represented. It's a world long gone, goods arrive on massive boat in standard size containers rather than in the hold of a ship to be unloaded by gangs of men.

Once historied out, I headed back into the centre of town. Passing the base of the Radio City Tower. Outside there was a banner promising tours of the tower and to ask at reception for details. As I walked up to door a young bloke came out so I asked about this. "No problem", he replied expaling that he ran these and would be back in a few minutes if I waited inside.

As promised, a few minutes of hanging around in reception he returned and relieved me of £4.75. Apparently business had been light that day which is why he was so happy to give me a chance to have a look when normally they would shut up 5 minutes after I arrived. I was only the 5th person he'd seen whereas the previous week much larger parties had been the norm.

The lift to the top of the tower is large and takes seconds to raise you up through it's narrow stem. Stepping out and meeting the view is a bit of a shock. The windows lean outward. Apparently everyone does a double-take at this point since the view extends to the floor and does seem to falling away from you. What a view though.



You can see for miles up the Mersey. More importantly though, you see the city from a rare viewpoint. Everything is literally at your feet. OK, so the tops of modern buildings aren't particularly exciting being a mass of aircon units, heating pipes and fire escapes but look a little further and there are some real gems. Small green areas appear. Squares suddenly look as their designers intended and the road system is a bit more like a map. Once my initial shock subsided looking straight down there were lots of teeny tiny people wandering around completely unaware that they were being watched from above.

The building started life looking very different from the way it does now. It was originally built as a ventilation shaft for St Johns Market, a role it never fulfilled thanks to a change of legislation just as it was finished. A view gallery and revolving restaurant were constructed at the top. The eatery closed in the late 70's and as far as I can tell the revolving mechanism no longer exists. Years later a second desk was added in a £5m refurbishment. The radio station moved in and had studios in the centre of the building. I suppose for traffic reporting thay are ideally placed !

At the back of the tower are the offices which leaves about 2/3rds of the circumference for visitors to enjoy. Sadly this means Lime Street Station can only be glimpsed but everything else you'd like to see if available. I might be a bit sad but one of the things that fascinated me were the ugly vents for the Mersey Tunnels. I'd seen these years ago from the ferry and my guide was able to explain exactly which ones were which.

While up there I had one of those "Glad I don't have to do that moments." The glass was a bit grubby. Apparently it gets a clean every year by specialists but last year there was a problem. The light bulbs on the outside of the deck also get replaced by the same people so if their illumination replacement budget is stretched then the window cleaning budget takes the hit. A lot of bulbs blew last year, hence the state of the glass.

The trip up the tower was fantastic. Had I know trips were available I'd have planned my day around one. As it was I caught the last rays of sun giving me darker photos to remember the visit. Thanks too to my guide, the excellent Kyle Mansell, who was so generous with his time and knowledge.

Radio City Tours

From the tower I spotted the other place I wanted to visit. The Catholic Cathedral, affectionately known as "Paddy's Wigwam" because all the money was raised by the Catholic community who were mainly of Irish descent, it is one of the most striking religious buildings in the country. According to the map I'd looked at, the walk would take about 15 minutes from the centre and despite getting a bit lost (for a big building, it's surprisingly difficult to see until you find it) that worked out about right.

The current cathedral was a compromise. Originally a magnificent structure to rival the nearby Anglican cathedral was planned with the largest unsupported dome outside the Vatican. The crypt was built but then the budget soared to an amazing £27m, which in the 1920's was an impossible sum to raise. Various plans were developed to bring the scheme under control but none ever reached fruition.

In 1960 a new competition was held. The budget was set at £1m for the shell and the new building had to make use, and relate to, the already constructed crypt. The result, designed by  Sir Frederick Gibberd, was modern and eye catching. It encapsulated the spirit if the times.Everyone can see the service as the plan allows for "religion in the round" with a central alter and circular seating.

Needless to say I've had to take this stuff on trust as by the time I pitched up, about 6:30pm, the place was locked up tight. I climbed the steps to wander around the outside of the main building and it's very impressive. Much 60's architecture looks very dated but this doesn't. In fact I suspect that it's the sort of building that come along very, very rarely. The design doesn't date because it doesn't fit in to any category.

Metropolitan Cathedral website

Modern lighting and some sympathetic glass sculptural panels show the building off to best effect today. I had the place to myself and enjoyed the serenity before wandering back to my train home. The streets weren't busy other than trickles of people making their way back from work. In one window I got the biggest shock of the day. One of the kebab shops said "All our products conform to ISO..."

Who knew that kebabs had a British Standard number ? Liverpool truly is full of surprises.

My photos on Flickr

The last train to Wrexham

I had my Wednesday all planned out. Mostly it involved getting things ready for a trip at the weekend. Then on the local news came the story that made me change my plans.

Wrexham and Shropshire Railway is to close on Friday.

Friday ?! That was only a couple of days away !

My panic wasn't down to some trainspottery sadness at the loss of a railway company. It was because I had always promised myself a trip to Wrexham on one of these trains. I've used them a few times and have always been hugely impressed, not just by the comfort but by the superb staff. So far my journeys had been restricted to Cosford and a return from Wolverhampton (you might argue that any journey out of Wolverhampton would be pleasant but that would be rude. And incur the wrath of the Black Country), neither of which are long runs. Using these trains is a pleasure to be wallowed in. Michael Williams wrote about his trip down to London using them in the excellent book "The Slow Train" and feels the same way. This is old-fashioned rail travel in the best meaning of the phrase.

To be honest I've never had a particular desire to go to Wrexham other than to enjoy watching the countryside roll by while sitting in comfort. Which is why I dropped my plans and grabbed the 10:54 from Leamington to Wrexham.

W&S are what is called an "Open Access" operator which means they are an independent company that have to negotiate the rights to stop at certain stations, use odd routes and generally have to fit in between everyone else. They tried to differentiate themselves by the quality of the experience and the reasonable price of the tickets.

The train arrived at Leamington looking very clean and smart. My coach had recently been fitted out with dark grey curtains and seat covers. Even though the end wall proclaimed "Standard Class", it was on a par with the first class on most other services.

My idea of a good train journey involves a good book, some music, something nice in the way of a cakey bun to eat and a drink of some sort, usually diet coke or hot chocolate. In the coach next to mine was the small buffet counter. But it was unmanned.

You might think this wasn't a surprise. After all, 12 hour earlier the staff had been told they were losing their jobs and with a company less than two years old there wasn't going to be any nice redundancy package to ease the pain. I can fully understand why you just wouldn't bother.

As it was our excellent train manager, Jane Meredith, did the honours. Despite sounding a bit chocked a few times as she talked to us on the tanoy or in person, she provided a very professional service. I recognised her from the Cosford trip and remembered how impressed I'd been with the way she'd handled a group of kids with not enough supervisory grown-ups too.

In the absence of buffet staff, Jane dished up drinks and food for the few passengers on board. The service is mainly about getting people to London in the morning and back in the evening. The traffic into Wales isn't huge, especially in January. All food and drink was free so I enjoyed a very nice fruit scone and jam along with some chocolate to drink. To be honest I'd planned to buy this anyway but I suppose there isn't any point in messing around with change by this point.



Jane made an announcement about the closure of the service as we passed through Coventry (W&S don't have the rights to stop there which hasn't helped the finances I suspect) and the lady next to me was not impressed. She was a regular user of the service from Gobowen to Banbury and was really going to miss it. Her daughter seemed more interested in the raggy toy but will undoubtedly wonder why she doesn't get a nice comfy train in future and has to walk across Birmingham instead.

Another passenger seemed more interested in what was going to happen to the sets, that is the trains themselves. For once I was really ashamed to be interested, however lightly, in railways. I mean, here we have someone who's just been told she is losing her job and her job and all this idiot wanted to know about was what would happen to the train. He was lucky not to have been told exactly where he could have put it !

The journey itself was a pleasure. We wiggled around the edges of Birmingham which made for a far more interesting view then if the train had charged through New Street, another station closed to the company. For the non-anorak I have to point out that the company uses proper coaches pulled by an engine rather than the more common version where each vehicle has an engine under the floor. This give a better ride and the surroundings are quieter. You can hear the gentle clickety-clack as you cross rail joints and the odd soft toot from the engine horn at the front. These coaches are over 25 years old of course but that's progress for you. If I have a complaint, it's that the fixed arms make sliding your legs out from under the table a bit tricky but I can live with that for the roomy seats.

As we approached Wales it was apparent that I wasn't the only one interested in the demise of these fine grey trains. At both Ruabon and Gobowen there were people on the platforms with cameras. Once we reached our destination and crunched our way up a salt-covered platform, even the BBC had turned up to film our arrival. Some local radio person stuffed a microphone in my face and asked my opinion on the ending of the service. I said something along the lines of it being a shame a quality service can't survive in Britain any more and this was a terrible shame. Not that it mattered - there are already some half-hearted attempts to save it, the local MP is jumping on the bandwagon rather faster than he jumped on the train apparently, but it's no good. In future you'll have to do what I did on the way back and change at Birmingham or Smethick. The "sets" will doubtless be packed off to a siding somewhere and left to rot while everyone carries on with noisy and uncomfortable trains, because it's what we do nowadays.

Along with several other passengers, I wished Jane good luck in the future. She disappeared through a door into a room in which it could be glimpsed, was fullof other W&S staff in the same boat. I hope they are lucky in the future. They deserve it.

More photos on Flickr.

Long Itchington Beer Festival 2010

The trouble with this interweb thingy is that you don’t know who’s reading your words. Worse, you can’t tell how upset they are going to be when they do read them. So it was that after last years trip to the Long Itchington beer festival, the organiser got in touch with me and moaned that I hadn’t given his pub a mention, instead describing it as the mystery pub we couldn’t find.

Therefore, this year I had absolutely no choice but to go and try the festival again. It’s not ‘cos I wanted to you understand, it was my duty.

According to the weatherman, the village would probably be washed away by the monsoon conditions predicted. Luckily the afternoon was fine, dry and the bus into the wilds of the Warwickshire countryside, not too late. Riding in unusual backward facing seats didn’t provide the greatest start especially as after a couple of miles, one of the other passengers shut the only open window so that he could feel the full effects of the vehicles very effective heating system. It’s a measure of the true nature of the British people that we politely allowed him to decide on the temperature despite being unable to understand the correct way to wear a pair of trousers. After all, someone who wakes up in the morning and decided that the waistband should be low enough that he has to do a belt up tightly over his own wedding tackle is possibly slightly odd. And can sing falsetto.

I’d taken the precaution of printing a map off from the festival website but we didn’t need it to find the first stop – The Buck and Bell just behind the duck pond. The roads around the building had become a temporary beer garden with crowds standing around enjoying a drink and watching others pass by on the way to their next refreshment stop. Rather than confine us inside, the Buck had laid on a small bar under a gazebo at one end of the building and a very tempting hot food stand at the other.

Last year we had a little bit of a problem explain that the beer should be served in the commemorative glass. This year the problem was getting the glass itself ! The outdoor barman was under the impression that they weren’t on offer this year. A little training was obviously in order along the lines of reading the pubs advert in the festival guide which said, “Festival shirts and glassware available here” Oooops !

On the other hand the beer, Darling Buds from the Warwickshire Brewery, was delicious and more than made up for slight confusion. While enjoying the pint there were plenty of traditional British beer festival characters on hand to provide some entertainment too. For example, “The Trainspotters” were carefully working through the list of brews and highlighting those they had already sampled so as not to waste time repeating a tasting. When I say highlighting I mean with a real, bright yellow, highlighter pen one of the team had probably pinched from their office. Judging by the dayglo effect on the pages they’d been working hard for most of the day too – a glimpse of the book was both blinding and sufficient to provide the viewer with a healthy looking suntan...

Underneath a tree was rarer sight – a genuine drunk person. You might think that a festival devoted to beer would be full of people out of their heads, and ready to make an appearance on a Channel 5 documentary on “Broken Britain” but no, festival goers are decent, honest and upstanding people who are there to sample and appreciate the panoply of tastes on offer. Not for us the “shot” of alcohpop, no we want to savour our drinks – just like people say they do on the continent but without having to learn French or wear a beret. Our drunk may have had an unusual haircut but all he did was sit on the grass drift off to sleep while everyone around him carried on as normal.

Finally there were a few people in costume. At least one St George was present plus some cohorts dressed in related attire. One was carrying an enormous axe – that would have given the TV people a shock, no concealed weapon here – another appeared as a ginger wigged woman. Admittedly this last costume was not very convincing, you’d have needed big, thick beer goggles to have been fooled. And of course there were Morris Dancers. Luckily there performances had finished but the law says morrismen must drink their own bodyweight in real ale every day and that’s what they were trying to do.

After the first pint we moved on to the Harvester. Inside the small bar there was a healthy queue. Better still, commemorative glasses were on offer but I couldn’t decide what I wanted to drink. Eventually I delayed the glass buying and went for halves of “Lilly the pink” and something that mentioned lemons. While waiting one of the other customers, who looked like an aficionado, asked if there were any more pumps. Exhibiting my local knowledge I said this was the entire bar, upon which news he mumbled something about the beer being gassy. Then he ordered a Budweiser. The Englishman in me nearly saw him dragged out to the street and given a stern dressing down – dammit, it’s a beer festival there is no need to order an American “beer” when nice stuff is available.

Anyway, The Square became the beer garden for the crowds unable to fit in the pub. Local planning has not been kind to this street as despite its name, the half timbered houses look out onto a sea of tarmac. Along here drove one or two locals not looking too impressed at the revelries taking place. Mind you, they looked like the sort of people you can’t please any of the time as they sat in air-conditioned and very clean 4 wheel drives and Mercedes so we just made way politely and carried on supporting the local economy.

We also made way for the horse drawn dray that was doing the rounds. Well, once we’d all had a stroke of the cute horsies anyway. There’s a little something in everyone that is drawn to fuss hairy animals and these good natured beasts were obviously well used to it. Even when one of the cars squeezed past they stood their ground although the look their handler gave them would have scorched the paintwork...

Then off on a voyage of discovery. Past the school. Past the Co-op with its handy cash machine. Past quite a few houses and eventually we found the Green Man. I’d been keen to come here since festival organiser Mark promised me a free pint last year for my previous blog entry. If you are thinking this is mercenary then you are right and yes appearance can be bought on this website for the price of a beer.

Yet again, the pub was packed. My first call was to relieve myself of earlier drinks in the Gents. Ladies may wish to turn away now as I have to describe the room. If a man needs a quick pee, there is a nice wide porcelain urinal available. It’s the white wall with gutter communal variety rather than a series of single receptacles. So far so normal. However in front of the gutter there is a solidly constructed, stainless steel device – a fence with a sloping (towards the gutter you’ll be pleased to note) top about shin or knee height depending how tall you are. Neither myself or the man who walked in after me had seen anything like this before.

“Bloody hell, what’s that ?” he exclaimed.

As a guess, I suggested, it’s to stop us falling in.

“Hmmmm” he replied and then got on with the job in hand.

All I can assume is that the male population of Long Itchington are prone to a bit of urinal snorkelling or that they have a tendency to fall in to the inch deep channel and need to be rescued, hence a fence to keep them out and stop soggy feet returning to the carpeted confines of the bar. To be fair, it worked and no one drowned while I was in there.

Back in the bar there was no immediate sign of Mark and I wasn’t going to push my luck trying for the free pint with anyone else, the man with the giant axe had been heading this way last time I saw him. Some amusingly named “Bear Ass” was available (The Warwickshire heraldic device is a bear and staff) and a nice new souvenir glass came my way too. In a side room a folk band played away but it was too crowded to stay inside and listen – anyway one strummer was sitting in front of the door so as to block any potential audience out. Assuming the sound would be audible outside we repaired to the wooden benches in the sun.

Outside again we discovered that the musicians had been put in a room with no open windows. Whether this was an oversight or comment on their standards of playing I didn’t get the chance to find out as Mark found me to say hello. It appears that despite me being rude about all the pubs last year, I wasn’t about to be chased out of the village by pitchfork wielding locals. In fact his disappointment was that I hadn’t been rude about his pub, which of course is his own fault for not putting any maps out for us last year. This year, much better and we could all get around as well as someone who has been living there for several generations.

Finally able to sit, I perused the enormous beer list and discovered that there was drink from the Castletown brewery based on the Isle of Man available at the Two Boats. Being a big fan of all things Manx, once the glass was empty, it was time for the trip to the canal.

On the way a stop was made for a Buck and Bell burger. At first glance a fiver might have looked steep but this was a proper burger. Un-round in the way only a decent hand-made burger can be, it was best part of an inch thick and complete with plenty of salad. It was this that was my undoing. I’ve always had a problem with tomatoes in sandwiches. They always seem to squirt juice over me as I eat and after just one bite, my shirt was splattered. Thus the rest of the evening was spent looking like the sort of sad act who walks around with food down his front.

It was worth it though. Delicious. Ronald Mac can only dream of producing such quality fayre.

The Two Boats is a canal side pub. To my disappointment the Castletown beer hadn’t lasted very long into the day so I drowned my sorrows with an alternative. The towpath drinking area was full but taking a stroll up the cut a bit seemed popular with most drinkers getting as far as the nearby lock before returning with a thirst. It certainly seemed a less wet option that the inflatable canoe being tested by a couple of hardy souls. I wondered if the large number of barges moored were related to the festival but then spotted glasses of wine sitting on the roof of one and a couple drinking canned poncy lager on another so perhaps it was just chance. The wall of boats probably did save the odd drinker from a dunking though later on as you couldn’t easily fall into the water.

Finally there was just time for a quick half at the Cuttle Inn the only other pub we hadn’t tried this year or last. It’s a posh place which is probably a haven for those who feel a bit pushed out by the incomers who only turn up once a year and can't be bothered to walk up the hill a bit. Behind the bar they discussed how Peroni glasses are more trouble than they are worth because they just keep breaking. Not knowing what one of these is, I took my Owl Screech and departed to the patio area. Here it was, overlooking the car park with Porches sporting signs warning the owners not to leave them here all the time as the spaces are wanted for other people, that we saw the only proper, TV style drunkenness.

A group of lads were out for the night and some were wearing fancy dress. In particular, one of their number who I seem to recall was named “Seth”, was dressed up like a polyester Richard Gere from “An Officer and a gentleman” in a suit slightly to big for him. For some reason he decided a beer throwing session was in order despite the protestations of his friends. Well, here is a handy hint for the future – If you are wearing a bright white suit, presumably with the intention of standing out in the eyes of the opposite sex, do not get beer and lager all over it. At the end of the film, Debra Winger was not swept off her feet by someone who looked like he’s been urinal snorkelling.

And so back to the bus. Just in time to escape before the predicted monsoon. With a bit of luck I’ll still be able to go back next year. Seth will have dried out and I might even claim my free pint.

Official Long Ithington Beer Festival website

I took a load of photos which are on Flickr for your amusement.

Welshpool

Birmingham News Street station isn’t an appealing place at the best of times. With half the lights switched off thanks to an electrical fault, the resulting gloom does nothing to improve it’s appeal.

More of a worry that as well the escalators, the electrical mishap had closed all the concessions on the concourse, apart from a dimply lit branch of WH Smith. While this might have been a minor inconvenience for those in the magazine rack reading library, for me it could have been disastrous as my favourite muffin supplier was out of action. I was facing a long train journey at the mercy of the onboard catering trolley.

A quick dash up to the shopping centre above the station and a bit of hammering on the counter sorted things out as I purchased the last double-chocolate muffin in the place. Even better, it was so freshly baked the choccy chips were gooey as I sat and ate it three-quarters of an hour later.

My trip to Welshpool was a spur of the moment decision. Faced with a department meeting which didn’t concern me but promised to be limb-gnawingly dull and held in some out of the way centre that I suspected would tax my limited ability to navigate the roads of Coventry, I decided that a day off and a nice train ride was in order. The destination was one I’d promised to myself a couple of times looking out of carriage windows from passing trains. The weather was threatened to be superb, what was stopping me ?

Birmingham to Welshpool is served by a surprisingly long train that was unsurprisingly low of passengers. In my carriage there were no more than half a dozen of us. A couple of seats in from sat a sharply dressed man in a pale grey suit that contrasted with his Virgin Media t-shirt. When the guard arrived to check tickets he surprised me by pulling out an old-fashioned roll of cash rather than a piece of plastic to pay up – more Dell Boy than Gordon Gecko.

Some say that England is disappearing under concrete. I disagree as the gaps between towns are still huge when viewed from the train. “They” may need to revise there opinions however as the latest thing seems to be to cover fields in plastic sheet. Long, shiny strips of the stuff are laid in neat rows covering and protecting (I assume) the precious seedlings. For anyone who complains about bright yellow fields of oilseed rape, the sight of striped grown visible from miles away should have them prepareing to fire off a missive to the Daily Telegraph.

At Telford the sharp dressed man left and was replaced by two very clean cut men in identical suits and ties who sat facing each other around a table. On the lapel of the one facing me was a large black badge on which I could read the words “Elder O’Brien” and “Jesus Christ”. I’d guess that it was Mr O’Brien on the train and not his boss, although if I’m wrong then the journey was surprisingly uneventful – no water into wine, raising the dead or that sort of thing. Closer inspection later allowed me to read the full text showed him to be a representative of the Church of Jesus Christ and the laterday saints – more commonly called a Mormon. Followers of this faith often carry out 18 months to 2 years full-time missionary work around the world apparently (OK, I looked it up on Wikipedia). It would appear that Elder O’Brien and his colleague were off to the wild lands of deepest Wales to print religion to an area where strange people spoke a funny language...

To be frank, the scenery on this trip isn’t much to write home, or even a blog post, about. It’s green and pleasant enough but rarely diverted me from my book, a slightly turgid tomb on the history of Radio 4. When we reached Shrewsbury the keen observer would notice some slight changes. The railway signals are the old-fashioned semaphore type rather than traffic lights.

The station entrance is guarded by a huge signal box and the multiple platforms speak of a town of considerable importance. The platforms are graced with a brace of train-spotters, the first I’ve seen. Where once would have been displayed adverts there is now an art show by the Shrewsbury Youth Project. Each arch on a wall is home to a large canvas that has been decorated in a style the cognoscenti would call “Street Art” and others “Graffiti”. I suppose it ads a splash of colour to the scene and keeps the kids off the streets where they might choose to paint surfaces that can’t be easily replaced. You have to wonder if the architects and builders of the station ever envisaged that we’d be less interested in repairing the canopies than hanging up aerosol cartoons of people on bikes by “Shaz”.

The hills arrive as we approach journeys end. I could tell that I was in Wales thanks to the local speed camera van having something unpronounceable written in big letters on the side. Presumably “Safety Camera Partnership” or similar doesn’t translate naturally but you don’t want to annoy someone who has just been nicked for racing his Ford Escort down a windy road built for sheep by imposing law from a blatantly English vehicle”. Business looked slow as the only powered transport other than the train was a distant tractor.

Welshpool has several stations but the one travellers arrive at is a single platform affair with a bus stop shelter and connections to the town on both sides via a straggly metal footbridge. In an effort to completely avoid any steps and the straddle the neighbouring bypass the designer produced a structure looking like an enormous daddy-longlegs that someone painted in pale, municipal, grey. Contrasted against this were several fluorescent jackets belonging to one of the largest Police presences I’d seen for a long while.

Exiting the giant insect I wandered over to the Old Station. It was this building that caught my eye as I’d travelled past previously. A magnificent bring building obviously intended as a show-off gesture by a confident railway company. Now separated from the platforms by the main road, it has been turned into a sort of shopping centre where women buy clothes inspired by the countryside, rather than the sort of thing real country people wear which is mostly wellingtons and baler twine, for themselves and their husbands. For the gentleman there is a golf shop and surprisingly a small room full of Hornby trains and Scalextric cars. For the tourists, Welsh fudge and rock plus all manner of lovely souvenirs were on offer for that last minute present buying spree. While poking around and realising that even I was too fashionable for the garments on offer, I asked why the local constabulary were out in force.

“The Queen has come by train to open the new livestock market” was the reply. This explained it, when the monarch arrives then every copper locally is expected to polish his or her boots and keep the local population under control. Judging by the numbers on duty, it would have been a field day for burglars in the surrounding areas. Even though there was no sign of the royal train, every exit on the footbridge was guarded and a small group sat on borrowed chairs by the end of the station building.

Now the livestock market appeared to be on the other side of the tracks to the town in an industrial area. On that basis I didn’t expect to see HRH during my visit. How wrong I was. At the end of the short walk into town were streets bedecked with bunting and crowds filling the pavements – only prevented from encroaching on the road by cattle barriers and even more burly coppers. In the distance were some official looking cars and in front of these were some armed forces cadets, a lady in mayoral garb, lots of press wielding cameras and in the middle of the scrum, a very short lady dressed in blue.

To my right was the Royal Hotel, obviously the destination for the party and outside there more official types who were presumably wishing her maj had stayed in the car and ignored the crowds so they could have something to eat. Instead she was making her way down one side of the street talking and collecting bouquets from the public. On the other side of the road, Prince Phillip performed the same function although you get the feeling that those there felt they had got Wise and not Morecombe – good but you wanted to meet the bigger star.

Eventually the Queen got as far as me to the sound of cameras and mobile phones snapping away. A spontaneous burst of applause rang out – presumably clapping to congratulate her on being Queen or something. The general feeling was “Isn’t she tiny” and “Doesn’t she look lovely” followed by “Thank God she’s got here, now we can have something to eat” from those by the hotel.

Even then the entertainment was not finished. The BBC correspondent Andrew Marr was doing a piece to camera, presumably desperate to link the new market into some election farming story. “Hello Mr Andrew Marr” shouted someone close to me although he received no acknowledgement. Possibly Marr had already discovered that the big political story of the day was happening elsewhere...

With the Queen in the hotel feasting on the best this part of Wales can offer, the crowd dispersed. I headed off down a side street – fighting up the main road wasn’t an option as everyone had decided they needed to be somewhere they weren’t. Feeling a bit peckish myself I found a fish and chip shop with attached café and ordered fish (unspecified and no options were offered) chip and peas (mushy, again, not options). I’d picked up the local paper to read as it had a suitably apocalyptic story on the front page regarding the recent Icelandic Volcano. The editor had obviously decided that this was a bandwagon not to be missed and leapt on it with aplomb - “Volcano wreaks havoc in Powys” - which translates into “bowls players held up abroad thanks to lack of flights” . The food was very hot and very tasty. If I'm being picky, the peas and chips got a bit mixed up on the plate but who cares ? Not the local population as the place was filling up nicely as I finished munching. You could hardly hear “Loose Women” playing on the large screen telly opposite the serving counter.

After this I took a gentle stroll up the high street. For pudding I tried a shortbread biscuit, which was disgusting, and then a chocolate covered ring doughnut from a different shop which wasn't that much better. Handy diet hint: only eat food that you throw away before the second bite.

The town hall has been turned into a rather nice indoor market. Lots of local food on offer plus hardware, second hand books and two stalls of “stuff”, those weird gift like things involving far too many fairies and elves plus added dream catchers. How do they make a living ? Also, perhaps I was being unfair but on seeing another bakers stall, I decided against more cake attempts in that direction even though the comestibles on offer looked tempting and home made in a good way.

Over the top of the hill is the third station which belongs to the Welshpool and Llanfair Light Railway which although it closed in 1956, lives on in the hands of enthusiasts who run steam engines on days when I'm not there leaving me with a view not much better than that available from Google Streetview.

Never mind, I wasn't there to look at steam trains. Even if I'd wanted to I didn't have time. Besides, the canal museum spotted on the way into town looked very interesting with an unusually shaped warehouse. Back in town the Queen had started to move so the straight route was blocked but some nifty navigation past the chip shop circumnavigated her. It's at that point my luck ran out – for future notice, the museum is shut on Wednesdays. Still, there were some nice wooden sculptures outside to look at, if you like giant handbags and fake birds anyway.

Back at the station the royal train was parked in the platform looking very nice and purple. Wale's best were blocking all entrances to the footbridge just in case anyone tried to find a seat on-board. A few people hung around but by this point she was ensconced in the travelling throne so there was nothing to see. Eventually the train pulled out and the plebs were allowed to wait for their own rather less grand conveyance.

Sitting on the platform a concrete mixer drove past with a fantastic claim, “Longest concrete conveyor in the world” . What a claim and what a way to finish up the day.

In summary: Welshpool, lovely town but give it a miss on Wednesday and try to avoid your visit clashing with the Queen.

See more photos on Flickr