Shrewsbury

 

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.

random street scene

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

Armored Trains

 

Here in America we think of armored trains, if we think of them at all, as relics of a bygone age. Perhaps we recall steel clad locomotives steaming across the African veldt, armed with Martini Henrys, gatlings, Lees and Maxims. Or World Wars I and II, in which battle trains were famously active. Today? Not so much. But hold on, readers.

Armored trains are very much alive and well, especially in Eastern Europe. Serbia, for example, deployed the famous Krajina Express. Here's a photo:

And Russia notoriously armored up some rolling stock in the Chechen conflict, Baikal, Amur, Terek, and Don. These battle wagons were armed with 23 mm ZU-23-2 guns, a T 62 on a flatbed, and 30 mm BMP cannon, to say nothing of small arms, jamming equipment, missiles and whatever else the Russkies strap onto the rolling beasts.

After the second Chechen war these ferocious trains were put in storage only to reappear in rail intensive Ukraine, where they've seen extensive service. Apparently several Chechen conflict trains have been combined into one train, the Volga.

What can we say? The message is clear, surely, armored trains are awesome and we want one, or more. Texas demands it.

Casey Jones,

LSP

Pastoralia

By 11.30 am I'd driven 100 miles to visit two people, and that's the way it is in a country that's decided to be a road. Still, I'm not complaining, the drive through the Texan countryside was alright, I35 less so, but whatever. 

More importantly, the person I saw in hospital had complained the week before of being "whupped like a dog." She was a whole lot better today and I said, "Your spirit has returned," and so it had. Praise God for that.

Giles Fraser

Back at the Compound I reflected on pastoralia in the missions and what I'd been trained for in England, before the hideous onslaught of womyn priests, trans naming ceremonies and the craven capitulation of Cursitor Doom and associated comshill leftist clergypersons to Islamism. 

Back then it was about walking around the parish, flying the flag and visiting shut-ins who just remembered the last Boer War, well, WWI anyway. "It was all horses and guns, Father," they'd say, cheerily. May they rest in peace and Rule Britannia.

These days it's about climbing into the rig and putting miles on the clock and you know what, it's not time wasted.

God bless,

LSP