Today's Columbus Day or as you like to call it, "Indigenous Peoples' Day," but two weeks ago it was just another Monday in Sadiq Khan's London, a warm one at that. Almost as though the Sceptered Isle's capital city hadn't paid enough weather tax, which is Net Zero absurd because of course it has, why else would energy be so expensive there? Regardless, I strolled over to the train station, Euston, and rode the rails to Ludlow, a beautiful market town on the border with savage and doubtless Anarcho-Soviet Wales.
"Why Ludlow?" asked an old friend who I met at the town's small but well put together train station the following day. "Because," I replied with razor sharp logic, "I like it, and I have friends here." He seemed to understand, "Ah, now I understand," and we toiled up the hill to the center of town and the Blue Boar pub, lunch and the arrival of MCP, our old boss or Guv'nor in the mid '90s. Great fun, and I think we drank the place clean of Viognier. Were my friends there Communist? No, they were not, and some considerably not.
Neither, I think, was the town itself, unless you count unspoiled late medieval architecture and a market overlooked by a fortress somehow Marxist. And guess what? The place clearly needs to pay a steep fine for its appalling lack of DEI. Didn't see one single burqa or anything even approaching it. Huh. Go to Ludlow if you can, it's very pleasant or as my old boss would say, "Middle Earth."
Before long, a group of men set up beside me and we fell to talking, lo and behold, they worked in the arms trade or adjacent and go figure, they weren't commies, not at all, quite the reverse. This same pattern occurred twice over so many days and we all got along famously, go figure. That was the day shift, the evenings were mostly taken up with a trad crew of younger guys who seemed to mostly look up to Enoch Powell. No, they weren't Bolsheviks, far from it, and we had a lot of fun.
As with Ludlow, visit the RSC if you can, not a Snackbar in sight and if you're a member you get a great discount on rooms, but much of the place is open to the public in a small, relaxed country house hotel kind of way, so don't let membership stop you from visiting. The Club was founded after WWI as a monument to the men of the Royal Scots Regiment, Pontius Pilate's Bodyguard, who gave their lives in the conflict.
Next stop on this whirlwind tour of the UK? Cheltenham, a town of contrasts, lovely Georgian buildings as if set in a park, and bikers. Perhaps I'd find the Islamo-Marxist Caliphate there.
Stay Tuned,
LSP
