I know you'll laugh but I'd never been to Shrewsbury, and last week that all changed as we drove off the stormy highlands of the Scots/English DMZ into lush, verdant, pastoral Shropshire. Well done faithful Tigra for making it so far, and well done D for driving.
And there it was, Shrewsbury. Turn right over the river into the half-timbered heart of the town and nav through the narrow cobbled streets to the Prince Rupert hotel, GPS is your friend. Then check in, drink a comp glass of sherry, thanks, Prince Rupert, and try and find your room.
This wasn't easy, on account of the hotel being a maze of corridors in a series of interconnected houses, but it was worth the search because the room was pleasant, overlooking ancient awesomeness. You could even open the window, a rarity in today's hermetically sealed hotel rooms.
That night, an old friend came in from Ludlow and we set off in search of adventure, finding it in an unreconstructed 1980s pub, half-timbered of course, complete with a juke box and "we only take cash," another rarity in disturbingly cashless Britain.
The next day we met with an old friend I hadn't seen in several decades, and he was on fine form, what a blessing to catch up with people you haven't seen in many, many years and even more so to find them just as fun as they ever were, perhaps more so. Great fun, and I introduced GJ to Negronis, such a good drink, at a pub on the river; big hit.
Later that evening, I found myself at the bar of the pleasantly old fashioned hotel and fell into conversation with a retired policeman who felt the country had "gone to the dogs." Perhaps he had a point, but Shrewsbury seems to have escaped the wrecking ball of modernity.
Close run thing too, apparently some commission told the town's elders that if they persisted in destroying historic buildings they'd lose their heritage status. So they stopped. Good.
So visit Shrewsbury, it's gorgeous, and stay at the Prince Rupert, a pleasantly old school hotel. Go too to the Hopping Friar pub where beer's three bucks (parityish) a pint. Next stop? The amazing, remarkable, can't speak too highly of it Ludlow.
Your Touring Pal,
LSP
Three bucks for beer? And they say miracles do not exist.
ReplyDeleteMany photographs of rural England, long open pastures of green grass, unencumbered by stone fence, present an image of a long-range shot by a Lend Lease M3 Lee against a Panzer IV. Flank shot preferred. A lifetime of considering terrain as "How would I take or defend this?"
ReplyDeleteSadly the retired policeman is all too right. At least you're seeing the mostly unchanged parts. Good journeys to you both.
ReplyDeleteI'm guessing that the three quid for a beer was a special price because you wore your kilt into the Trader Vick's style pub...
ReplyDeleteIt looks as if you're having fun but the weather doesn't look warm. My recollection of Shrewsbury was excellent fish and chips but that was a long time ago.
Infidel, we live in an age of miracle and wonder.
ReplyDeleteAdvance to contact, Sgt., and imagine being out there, north of the Wall. No small thing.
ReplyDeleteI deliberately kept it that way, BadFrog. And what a good ex cop, we had a few late(ish) night convos.
ReplyDeleteLL, the fish and chips were EXCELLENT.
ReplyDeleteDespite no kilt. Huh.