Thursday

KJ, KP and JT arrived around 7.30ish, a little later than expected, after delays due to Keith, who had been forgotten by his lift, and Joe who had forgotten his genuine Irish blackthorn walking stick. Still time though to sneak a quick pint at the Bridge and a walk around the town, resisting the attractions of the local Museum & Dalek collection. It may have been a good time to take a quick look inside the Tardis and engage the assistance of a dalek; Flapperjack had put paid to the appearance of Brockie on this walk……exterminate……….exterminate. (Click for sound effect).

Spike and Chris J were picked up at Sun Trevor, who had ridden their bicyclettes around Wales under rain clouds for an hour or so before garaging them by kind permission of the landlord at the pub.

As the remainder; Yup, Tone, Mo, Bill, Dave Stubbs, Spike, Chris Jackson, Malc & Steve gathered at the hotel, the confusion over the rooms was ably sorted out by Mid-week Tone who did a spiffing job re-arranging the rooms to separate the alleged snorers from the f b’s. As we prepared for our first night out in the welsh air with a pint at the bar, KJ slipped out a birds eye chilly which went down very well …………. aaaaaggggghhhh.

A search began for Joe’s elusive fish & chip shop. As was to be expected in Wales, it was shut for tea. The sign was well painted though. A lining to the stomach however, was the number one priority before drinking, but only a dubious looking take-away kebab shop was open. Was it going to be Turkish delight or Sadam’s Revenge?

The donner looked raw, the chips a la MacDonald’s. The fish came solid, deep-frozen, and after a quick dip into the fryer developed all the charm of soggy whore’s drawers with a candy coating. Joe ordered a 9 inch Italian but could he handle it? It was the first time he’d ever held 9” in his hands. However, it was probably the best choice on the menu as the high garlic content kept the flies away for the rest of the night.

The presence, or non-presence, of Malc came to light. Apparently he had disappeared for a while in search of snacks. The conversation then switched to Dave Brooman for some strange reason. Joe said he’d heard that DB spends 95% of his money on women and children but still manages to squander the remaining 5% on fags and booze.

Mid week Tone had done his homework well and the hours of trawling the CAMRA websites had been well worth it with the uncovering of The Sun Inn with six real Ales, draught cider, a selection of foreign beers and resident wolf. The beards and sandals brigade were appreciating some fine jazz played by a trad band auditioning for The Jungle Book. Dave Brooman’s wayward brother played sax and clarinet in between swigs of ale.

We took it easy the first night, not wishing to miss out on the early start the following morning. Steve Morgan retired first followed by Malc. We had a further 5 pints and went straight to bed.

Friday

Friday morning began with a rush to feed the car park meter followed by a decent breakfast. Lukewarm food on a burning hot plate was an added novelty. Robbee, Stevee and Mattee arrived and joined us on the bus where we waited patiently while Joe dashed off to find his bloody stick. Tone collected a bagful of change to pay for the bus (just what you need to carry around with you on a 12 mile walk! ) before the driver sped off to Chirk Railway Station to meet the remaining party and a bemused special star guest, Dave Robinson, with someone claiming to be his wife.

Spike’s boots were eventually laced up, despite the inch thick greasy wax, and after the obligatory group photos (thanks to Dave Robinson we all managed to get on this one for the first time).

A short stroll to the gates at Chirk Castle, over the Aqueduct and through Chirk tunnel before returning to the gates proved too complicated for some. In the darkness of the tunnel, 6 members were allegedly abducted by aliens and transported 1 mile along the towpath and had to run back to join the main party at the Castle Visitor Centre. What a laugh HA-HA. (Yes most of us spotted the ‘ha-ha’).

Spike, who had earlier blown himself out, by whistling to attract the missing members of the party, explained his desire for a courtyard, mmmmhhh.

Across the fields and over the hills we rejoined the recently surface dressed towpath. A couple of hundred yards and nearing the Pont Cylyte aqueduct, some Welsh git named Dai Version had blocked the route. Frantic consultation with every pretty young thing in the vicinity confirmed that a simple detour would take us onto Pont Cysyllte if we were still interested.

On reaching the aqueduct the colour appeared to drain from the faces of several members, as they grasped how far above the valley below they actually were. Inch by inch they edged their way across, keeping to the inside edge of the towpath until they reached the pub at the far end. Sadly, the pub wasn’t recommended as it only served creamflow; and time was getting tight. So we continued over the canal and the A539 to Trevor Hall (nice bloke apparently) to begin the climb.

Grandpop Bill was having problems hauling his 20 stone of solid muscle up hill and Mark was suffering a severe case of wanderlust. Mid week Tone consulted the map and decided a higher route was the way to go, even though the first bit was overgrown (or should that be overgroan?)

A full catalogue of prickly, barbed and thorny jungle was followed by neck high bracken injecting directly into a thousand cuts. The machetes were of no use. ‘Sort it out Sutton’ came the tearful cries from Robbee. Tahoohigh was having kittens in case the snakes sensed we were lost. Surely they would smell Keithee’s blood stained hanky, which Yup later discovered in the undergrowth and gingerly returned it to Keithee.

Back to the route and continuing upwards we met Bill and Mark ambling along. To the bard’s monument and Jean’s seat to admire the views of green hills and torched cars. At last it was all downhill for everyone, except Mark who was met taking a short cut uphill.

An old guy was working on one of his 3 classic Triumph Roadsters, fitting replacement cord piston rings. What fun.

And so to the Sun Trevor to finish off the barrel of Cathedral Ale, with good nosh and plenty of chips and cleavage. Mo had his eyes on one thing only and gripped firmly onto a tray of chips under the table. (Well that’s what he says he was gripping.) Bill loved the pub; now there’s a surprise. At the count of 3 we all rang the office to raise the flapping levels to the roof. Keithee rang home instead. ……der.

Richie, Craigee and Beardee arrived to complete the party and join us for lunch before driving off sightseeing. The thought of re-scaling the heights forced a 50/50 split with half taking the pretty canal route and half to see the views from Castel Dinas. Robbee switched his mind at the death and joined the ardent walkers up the hillside. As they rested on the top in the sun Spike enjoyed the warm breeze ‘gusting’ through his shorts.

We re-grouped on the decking at The Corn Mill where the Beardy Boys remained for the next 5 hours, before showering (cold showers for some) a quick nap for some, and returning at 7.30 to catch the sun set over the mountain, drink more beer and watch the river and the girls sashaying by. Pity the sun went down on Beardee when Mark Stefan ‘the sun blocker’ put him in the shade; and after he’d waited 3 hours for it to hit him.

An average curry at nine went down well, washed down with kingfisher beer, red wine and air conditioning that refused to work anywhere near Spike. ‘Have you got an extension lead mate?’

The coriander chicken with a curly ker proved the most popular, but boy was it stuffy in the restaurant. We thought we’d spotted rat poisoning but it turned out to be brown sugar that Joe had knocked over.

Off then to the Sun Inn again, for nightcaps and real live music. Sadly the group had failed to turn up, but we provided our own entertainment before returning to the digs at around 1ish, passing a wee welsh skirmish in the street, and to work out the security numbers on the door lock.

Saturday

An early morning breakfast was enjoyed by all, except Beardee, who was confined to his single occupancy room, awaiting a personal invite. Spike commandeered a fan again from behind the bar to cool his brow. Beardee eventually turned up just as everyone had finished. At least he’d had a hot shower. Spikey toddled off on his bike and visited the Ponderosa café on the Horseshoe pass and to check out a further area for a future outing perhaps.

A highly successful and a hot couple of days.

Well done organisers.

Jacko and Yup – a collaboration