Return to the Chaser

Just a short catch-up post, as this morning I took young master Matthew out for a spot of breakfast. He’s got a week off from work and is using his time wisely, catching up himself on things that needed doing- getting the MOT on his car renewed, sorting out his room, arranging finance to cover the final settlement figure on his car, spending time with his girlfriend, who isn’t off work this week. Oh, to be young again, or perhaps not, more likely being young, but knowing what I know now, but not really that either, as learning and finding things out for oneself are the natural way of things, and are part of growing up.

Anyway, on the first day of my long weekend (Thursday), Matthew surfaced at the same time as Mrs PBT’s and I, and once all three of us were washed and dressed, we jumped in the car and drove over to Mabledon Farm, which is where Eileen does her regular, weekly book-keeping stint for a local scaffolding firm. We dropped her off and then set a course for Shipbourne, a small and attractive village, situated on high ground, to the north of Tonbridge, which also happens to be the home of the Chaser Inn.

Our visit was a virtual repeat of the one we made back in November, which was the day before my day trip to south Devon, and the lovely little town of Topsham. There are no similar epic journeys planned at the moment, at least not on dry land, but in just under a fortnight’s time, Mrs PBT’s should be venturing forth on the high seas, as we embark on a 16-night cruise along the coast of Norway. Matthew will be house-sitting whilst we’re away, a task he’s undertaken for several previous voyages.

The Chaser breakfast represented a continuation of what had once been a regular occurrence, but one that was understandably somewhat curtailed by the appearance of a new person in Matthew’s life. I chose the Chaser, because I wanted to move away from some of the greasy spoon type places, Matthew and his mates like to frequent. I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a great believer in establishments which not only use top quality ingredients, but meat and eggs that are locally sourced. In addition, breakfasting at a pub, gives a welcome boost to a sector that is facing enormous challenges, at the moment.

We arrived in Shipbourne, shortly before 10am, and not surprisingly found all the parking places close to the pub, already taken. It wasn’t looking that good on the extensive common, opposite either, and whilst we eventually found a vacant spot, it was quite a hike back to the Chaser. The cause of this congestion/popularity was the weekly Farmers’ Market, held every Thursday at the nearby church of St Giles. According to their website, the church organises the Market as a service to the local community and judging by the number of diners and coffee drinkers at the Chaser, it appears to have a positive knock-on effect for the local pub as well.

I’m not sure if we could have had a beer with our breakfast, but the great big porcelain pot of tea was a more than adequate substitute. Both of us went straight in with a full English, of bacon, sausage, tomato, hash brown (I know they’re not English!) and black pudding, cooked to perfection, and served with two slices of thick, slices of toast. There were a lot more people in the pub than on our previous visit, and there was quite a few walkers too, amongst their number.

The Chaser itself is a large and impressive building with a tile hung exterior and a white veranda at the front. There is an attractive conservatory at the rear, plus a wood panelled and timber roofed dining area at the rear. If you haven’t twigged already, the Chaser is an unashamed, food-led pub with plenty of seating intermingled with unsegregated drinking areas and open fires. For the record, The Chaser is owned by pub-group Whiting & Hammond, whose portfolio includes the Little Brown Jug in Chiddingstone Causeway, the Cricketers at Meopham, the Bull at Otford, and the Rose & Crown at Orpington. The latter pub seems to be recent addition to the chain.

 

Technology and me - we don't agree!

There’s something about me and technology which means we quite often don’t get on well together. Regular readers will probably recall the trouble I had with my Smartwatch, a few months ago, when this time piece stopped recording the number of steps I’d walked, followed by a period when I was virtually locked out of my Google account. Fortunately, I was able to rectify these errors without too much trouble, even though there was a fair amount of soul-searching, on social media. I felt especially proud of solving the issue affecting the step counter, which in the end turned out to be a matter of trial and error.

This might seem a little fluffy, if that's the right word, but a week or so ago another tech problem reared its head, and this time it was a problem with my Smartphone. I appreciate that not all readers possess such a device, although I’m assuming that the majority of followers do, and even if, like one of my colleagues, your mobile phone is exactly that – a device for making and receiving calls, whilst on the move, or from different locations, you will appreciate what I am talking about.

So, the other week I noticed my Smartphone was advising that it could make or receive emergency calls only. Given the rural location of my workplace, I wasn’t overly surprised, as reception on mobile networks locally, are patchy at best, and non-existent at worst, but when the on-screen message persisted, when I arrived home, I began to suspect that something was up.

Everything else though, associated with the phone was working, so I could send and receive emails, listen to music downloads, take photos as well as surfing the net. In fact, my phone could do everything except make and receive phone calls – proof that the humble mobile phone, the device the Germans refer to as a “Handy”, has evolved far beyond its original purpose. I asked a work colleague who is far more “tech savvy” than me to take a look, and after accessing the device’s self-diagnostic features, told me that the SIM card wasn’t working.

A SIM card is a small plastic card with a computer chip that slots into your phone. It holds information, including your phone number, and allows you to connect with your network. SIM cards are assigned a unique identification number that stores information about your phone plan (type of plan, available data, voice minutes, and text messages.) Carriers then use this information to verify your account status and charge you accordingly on your monthly bill.

Everything else that isn't your phone number will still be on your phone after you remove the SIM card, although you won't be able to call or text those contacts without a phone number. Also, some apps may not work without a network connection. My colleague tried removing the SIM and then cleaning it (wiping it on a piece of clean cloth), before re-inserting it, but this made no difference.

Long story short, I contacted O2, my contract provider, using a landline, explained the problem, and after correctly answering the various security questions associated with my account, O2 agreed to post a replacement SIM to my home address. The latter duly arrived a few days later (a Saturday), and that afternoon I followed the instructions to swap the existing SIM for the new one. So far, so good, except it still didn’t work, and the new SIM was displaying a “Number Unknown” message.

This was where Mrs PBT’s stepped in, especially as she considers herself to be far more tech savvy than me. Despite this, the card stubbornly refused to connect to the network, which led her to advise that “SIMs can sometimes take a while to do this”. Despite my skepticism I checked online, and saw the same message, but one that seemed to contradict the instructions supplied with the new SIM. “Leave it until the morning”, was her sage advice, but come Sunday morning, my phone still had no network connection, which is when I decided to seek outside assistance.

There used to be an O2 shop in Tonbridge, but that closed several years ago, so just before midday, I headed over to the group’s Tunbridge Wells outlet. My bus pass allowed me a free return journey, even though services aren’t quite as frequent on a Sunday. I made my way to the O2 shop, and as it wasn’t too busy, a helpful young lady dealt with my enquiry straight away. After a series of checks, on both the phone and me, photo-ID driving license, bank card, plus verification of my mother’s maiden name (standard ID question), she informed me that despite having just replaced the SIM, it too was faulty. “I shall install another new SIM card”, she said, and joy of joy, the replacement, “New one” worked! After thanking her profusely, it was time for a celebration pint or two, but first I had one more shop to visit. M&S, everyone’s favourite retailer, and the store I was directed to by the staff in outdoor clothing retailer, Trespass.

I was after a pair of thermal undergarments aka,“long johns”. Norway is still  quite cold in mid-March, especially beyond the Arctic Circle, and that’s the destination where Mrs PBT’s and I are heading to in a couple of weeks’ time. Norway to be precise, and what Trespass were unable to deliver Marks & Sparks had the said garments in various sizes, including one that would fit me, and keep out the Arctic chill, when I’m wandering the streets of Tromsø or Narvik.

Finally, it was time for a pint, and my plan was to head away from the shopping area of Tunbridge Wells, and choose a couple of hostelries, close to the route of the bus home. I headed up towards Mount Ephraim, and the area opposite the old Tunbridge Wells Hospital. The former Kent & Sussex, usually referred to as the “Kent & Snuffit”, is no more and a mixed development of expensive looking apartments and town houses has taken its place, but directly opposite is Sankey’s.

I wrote about this family-run pub and brasserie a few months ago, but as it had been quite a few months since I actually set foot in the place, I was keen to find out what was occurring. Sankey’s offers a wide range of mainly keg beers, from various Kent and Sussex microbrewes, supposedly alongside a couple of cask ales. I saw no evidence of the latter, but perhaps they were available downstairs, as Sankey’s is spread over two levels. Keen to get a beer, I opted for a glass of Silver Lake, a pilsner-style beer from Lakedown Brewery. The latter is based at Who front-man, Roger Daltrey’s family estate and fishing lakes, close to the Sussex village of Burwash. The company’s beers are a regular find in many pubs in this part of the world and have acquired a good reputation. My pilsner-style beer certainly slid down well, especially after I managed to find a seat. 

I’ve actually got one of the bar staff to thank for that, as with the pub absolutely rammed, mainly with people dining it was Sunday lunchtime, after all, seats were at a premium. The very pleasant young lady who’d served me a short while before suggested I park myself down at one of the stools in front of the fireplace. Fortunately, the fire wasn’t lit so I didn’t roast and instead had a good vantage point over what was going on.  Apart from people watching, the walls and ceilings of Sankey’s are well worth a look, as they are festooned with what must be one of the most comprehensive collections of enamelled metal advertising signs in existence. Most of this memorabilia relates to long lost, but not forgotten local breweries, so if brewery history floats your boat, take a look the next time you are in Tunbridge Wells.

It was time to move on, and it wasn’t far to the George, a pub I last visited back in the summer. Like the previous pub, the George was heaving, and after elbowing my place to the bar, and ordering a pint of Fonthill Best – one of several beers brewed onsite, in an old stable building. In 1739, the George was a coaching inn for those travelling between Tunbridge Wells and London, and with its graceful exterior, plus an interior full of exposed beams, brickwork, fireplaces, and oak floorboards, the building still exudes warmth and nostalgia from every corner.

I managed to find a stool, set with its back to the window, where I could sit in full view of the punters, enjoying their Sunday lunches. With hindsight, it hadn’t been the best time to be in either pub, but circumstances being what they were, and the fact I managed to get my phone sorted out, were compensation enough. What was encouraging and heartening, was seeing both establishments not just thriving, but buzzing with it.

I’d timed my walk to the nearest bus stop, just right, so didn’t have long to wait for the next bus back to Tonbridge. Unfortunately, there was a lengthy wait, until the next service, so I had to hike back up the hill to Bailey Towers. Sunday services are limited, so I ended up walking home, after mission accomplished. Phone sorted, plus thermal leggings, ahead of our forthcoming Arctic holiday.

 

 

Rainy day blues, and trouble in publand

With a four-day weekend opening up in front of me, the question of what to do and where to go, once again raises its head. I shall be giving that question a lot of thought, over the next few days, but ahead of any trips out, the question of what to write about in the meantime also springs to mind. Before attempting to answer that question, the one constant at the moment is the never-ending rain. We’re over six weeks into the new year now, and I don’t think that a day has passed where there hasn’t been any rain. Instead, the downpours have been pretty incessant, and it’s the sort of weather that would have led to my dear old dad making one of his quips about having to plant rice in the garden, because that would be the only thing capable of withstanding the permanently wet conditions!

Rainfall is obviously part of the natural cycle, although it normally occurs in more measured quantities. For me, it is not so much a case of wanting to get out in the garden, even though there are some things that require my attention, but my main gripe is that excessive rain has an adverse effect on our cross-country footpath network, making many of them impassable, at worst, or slippery and excessively muddy at best.

Some intrepid individuals are still managing to get out into the countryside, and whilst some of them come across as foolhardy, or even reckless, other appear not to care, and throw all caution to the wind. James Pavlou, the intrepid individual behind the Walk Tonbridge website, is one such character, and is the person putting all of us armchair walking enthusiasts to shame. James’s website, which he originally set up during lock-down, sets out a couple of dozen walks, in and around Tonbridge, as well as including several audio recordings featuring older residents of the town, looking back at what Tonbridge used to be like. Looking at some of his postings on social media, he comes across as someone who rarely lets the weather interfere with his outdoor activities, so maybe I should allow him to shame me into going out, no matter what conditions are like underfoot.

These consideration aside, there’s no getting away from some of the other stories that are dominating the news, at the moment. One of the biggest news item is that many pubs are feeling the pinch, or worse, particularly when the belt tightening and associated money troubles, turn into abject closure. The causes of pubs going out of business are nowhere near as simple as some commentators would have us believe and are normally down to a combination of many varied factors, rather than, as certain newspapers, would like us to believe, are the fault of Rachel from Accounts!

I wouldn’t like to name them all, and I’d be pushed to identify more than a handful, but if I were a betting person I’d say changing demographics play a key role, along with changes in both society and peoples’ behavioural patterns. Put bluntly, people don’t go to pubs in the same numbers, or as frequently, as they once did. I know this from looking back at my own behaviour, because 40 years ago, it was quite common for me to wander a few hundred yards down the road, and enjoy several pints of beer, in the local pub. This was quite normal behaviour and was something that was repeated on most nights. It may have been a hangover (not literally), from my student days, when most evenings were spent in the pub, but back in the early 80’s, it seemed quite normal behaviour.

On top of enjoying a drink, most evenings, lunchtime drinking was still quite common, even though it wasn’t actively encouraged in the workplace. Those were the days when a boozy lunchtime session, (two or three pints), especially on a Friday, marked the unofficial end of the working week. Beer prices were also relatively cheaper than they are today, so for someone who enjoyed a few pints, such behaviour didn’t exactly break the bank.

The other main changes have been those involving the pub industry itself, and here, I’m afraid, the self-proclaimed beer drinker’s champion, CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale, has a lot to answer for. I don’t want to dwell too much on the effects of the 1989 Beer Orders, apart from saying that a well-meaning attempt to improve consumer choice and encourage more competition into the pub trade, had the opposite effect. 

There are a lot of different threads leading into this story, so rather than attempt to explain what happened, this link, from the Morning Advertiser, details both the thinking behind the legislation, and how it ended up going horribly wrong. CAMRA’s fault, was its naivety in whole-heartedly welcoming the changes because of the supposed boost that it offered to cask ale, whilst conveniently ignoring the considerable downsides, associated with this deal. (For the record, I was one of the many CAMRA members who thought the Beer Orders were a good thing, at the time!) Failing to anticipate the inevitable fall-out, led to many pub owners – individuals, or pub-owning companies, being saddled with enormous amount of debt, as the traditional low-cost, pub-tie, disappeared, allowing market forces to dictate both rent and drink prices.

Finally, I must mention the sad news that I saw on Chris Dyson’s excellent, Real Ale, Real Music website. In an article about legendary Keighley brewer, Timothy Taylor, Chris describes how the company has been divesting itself of pubs within their traditional Yorkshire heartland, and with particular respect to some of their more rural outlets. He mentions three specific rural pubs in Calderdale, which were well-established Taylor’s pubs back in the 1970's, when he first came across the brewery. They were all in attractive rural settings, with two of them within a mile of each other in the parish of Wadsworth.

Chris goes into some detail about all three pubs, but I’m going to reserve mention for just one of them, namely the Hare & Hounds at Lane Ends, high in the Pennines above the town of Hebden Bridge. I visited the pub in 1976, back in my student days at Salford University, and at the time thought it was one of the most wonderful pubs I had ever visited. Chris had also been to this pub, probably around the same time as my visit. He described how it proudly served the full range of Taylors' beers, including their premium bitter, Landlord. At the time, the Hare & Hounds was one of only three pubs - all tied houses - who were allowed by the brewery to serve the beer – a fact which seems incredible these days!

I wrote about visiting the Hare & Hounds, in an early blog post, and whilst you can read that piece here, it’s worth recounting it for the sake of continuity. Back then, one of my housemates was a keen cyclist, as well as an intrepid pub explorer, and on one of this trips he’d discovered the Hare & Hounds, a marvellous Timothy Taylor’s pub, high up in the Pennines. Fired up with enthusiasm, the pair of us, along with a group of fellow students, borrowed the Student Union van for the evening. We’d persuaded a non-beer drinking, fellow student to be our driver for the evening, and armed with a map, set off for the Hare & Hounds.

It was quite a drive across the Pennines from Greater Manchester, but as it was a June evening we arrived at our destination whilst it was still light. I can still remember our driver parking the bus in the bottom car park to the left of the pub and then walking up with the rest of us to the entrance. We were rewarded with an unspoilt, stone-built pub, enhanced by its rural location set amongst some striking Pennine scenery. To a country boy like myself, who’d been stuck amongst the grime of urban 1970’s Manchester, both pub and location, were heaven sent. We enjoyed an excellent evening at the pub, especially as the licensee didn't seem at all bothered about closing time. It was rather late by the time we left, and we were all a little bit the worse for drink!

Chris’s experience of the Hare & Hounds appears to match my own, but sadly he reports that this marvellous old, rural has now closed. He describes how, over the years whilst still being a mecca for Taylor’s drinkers, the pub became more food-focussed and gradually lost its way and its customers. This was despite an attempt at providing overnight accommodation. I had sometimes dreamt of making a return visit to the Hare & Hounds but now  that such an experience will not be possible. These closures serve as a stark reminder of the effects of the changes that have affected the pub industry, over the past four decades, and now, more than ever it really is a case of “use it or lose it” when it comes to our cherished pub stock.

 

 

A Sevenoaks selection

On a rather cold Friday, I took the bus over to nearby Sevenoaks, with the express purpose of visiting a couple of pubs, at the top end of the town. By “top end” I am referring to the old part of Sevenoaks, that is close to the historic pile of Knole Park. Travelling over from Tonbridge by road-based transportation rather than rail was a deliberate decision on my part, and it wasn’t a money saving one either. You see, whilst I can travel by bus f.o.c. arriving in the town by motorised transport allows the option of reaching the precise area of Sevenoaks that suits your agenda. This is in complete contrast to arriving by train, because the town’s rail station is right at the bottom of the town (northern end), meaning a steep climb up to the centre of Sevenoaks.

This suited my agenda, as the pubs I had in mind are all at the top end of town, which is the oldest part of Sevenoaks. Travelling from Tonbridge, I took the No.4 Go-Coach service, a fairly new operator on the route between the two towns, although if I’m honest, I only boarded this bus because it turned up a few minutes before the No.402 Arriva service that I planned to take. The bus dropped me at Sevenoaks bus station, a facility that is now missing from the majority of UK towns. The compact, but functional bus station has its own café, plus some all-important toilet facilities, handily situated for use, prior to boarding the bus home!

I’d originally bookmarked two pubs to visit, but after passing the recently re-vamped Chequers Inn (possibly the oldest pub in town), I couldn’t resist calling in for a quick look – and a quick beer! St Austell Tribute was my choice, but I could have gone for Harvey’s Best or “Chequers Ale” a house beer, brewed by Greene King apparently, and probably just re-badged, GK IPA. As mentioned, the pub had received a makeover, although apart from new carpets and comfy chairs, the two bars didn’t seem that different to what I remember.

I ended up drinking up quickly, because the quiet area I was sitting in, admittedly quite close to the bar, was “invaded” for want of a better word, by what seemed to be a pre-arranged, works reunion. Mostly female, with a token male participant, it was rather OTT and "lovey-dovey", for my liking. With hindsight I’d have been better off round in the other section of the bar, where a log-burner was radiating some welcome heat. No pictures, I’m afraid, as there was just too many people present, and not for the only time either, that day.

Departing via the rear entrance, which was close to the toilets, I crossed London Road and then turned into South Park. This road is home to Sevenoaks Post Office, and it's a real rarity these days to find a proper PO, rather than just a counter crammed into a local newsagents or convenience store. This configuration might be because there is still a postal sorting office to the rear of the Sevenoaks facility.

A short distance along South Park, and just opposite the sorting office, is the South Park Tap, a micro-pub which opened in May 2023 in a former café and sandwich bar. The Tap is a welcome addition to the town’s drinking scene and features a green-tiled facade leading into an attractively furnished and decorated interior. There are two drinking areas, set on different levels, with the rear one accessed down some quite steep steps. There is also a very small outside courtyard, but with temperatures hovering around 6° Celsius, I gave that area a miss.

With two Tonbridge Brewery beers on tap, along with one from Canterbury Ales (The Pardoners), there was a reasonable sized group of drinkers milling around the bar when I arrived. Unfortunately, by the time I’d finished my pint of Tonbridge IPA, there was only me, sitting by myself on the comfortable bench seating, opposite the bar. Something I said? I asked the young lad, sitting behind the bar and glued to his phone, how trade had been. 

He said business had been OK, and he was waiting for a pre-booked group of drinkers to turn up alter in the afternoon. As well as a well-kept pint served to me in a dimpled mug, the Tap had Tayto ready-salted crisps as part of their snack offering. Tayto crisps are a rare sight, on this side of the Irish Sea, but Mrs PBT’s and I enjoyed a few packs last spring, when our cruise ship stopped off in Cobh (the port town for Cork).

It was time to move on, and there wasn’t far to go to the third pub of the day. I’d walked past it earlier, when looking for somewhere to purchase a roll, or similar lunchtime snack. Tucked away, down a pedestrian access running between London Road and the High Street, is the Restoration, a Shepherd Neame pub. Formerly known as the Black Boy, the pub changed its name to its current one, a few years ago, and underwent a complete makeover at the same time. The name change is said to maintain the link to Charles II, known at the time of his reign as a “black boy”. Regardless of its name change, the pub dates back to reign of the aforementioned king, although given the extent of recent alterations, it’s difficult to confirm its antiquity.

The Restoration was certainly buzzing last Friday afternoon, primarily with “ladies that lunch”. The “Reserved” signs on many of the unoccupied tables, hinted at the expected trade, later in the day. Master Brew plus Whitstable Bay Pale were the two cask offerings, and I plumped for the latter, served to me by one of two pleasant and friendly girls behind the bar.  As with the Chequers, opportunities for internal photos were non-existent, so you’ll have to make do with a couple of exterior shots. This issue aside, it was good to see the Restoration enjoying a buoyant and vibrant trade.

I left the pub, and headed back towards the bus station, stopping at the town’s Bagel Station shop to pick up a cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, served warm, straight from the griddle. This was my first visit to the Sevenoaks bagel outlet, and with the décor and signage practically identical to the recently opened Tonbridge store, I naturally assumed they were both part of the same group. Sorry for mentioning it, I thought, as the individual serving me was quite off when I referred to the Tonbridge outlet – so perhaps it is a breakaway store, that split away from the established one, after a falling out. People can get quite petty and protective, but in response to a perfectly innocent and well-meaning question on my part, why be such an arse?

That aside, the shop was doing a roaring trade, numbering office staff, shop workers and sixth former's amongst its queuing customers. I wandered back to the bus station, plonked myself down on a bench and got stuck into my bagel. A trifle too rich perhaps, but it was the combination written up on the menu board that caught my attention. I finished my lunch just before the 402-bus turned up, which was just as well, as eating on board is no doubt frowned upon. I’d already upset one individual at his place of work and didn’t want to upset another.

After a speedy journey back to Tonbridge, I waited for the connecting bus that would take me close to the top of my road. As I walked down the road, I bumped into the neighbour I’d spoken to earlier that morning. Nick has agreed to carry out a spot of tree work for me, on a couple of trees that have got a little out of hand. As we were both passing Bailey Towers,  he came over for a closer look, and on that note my trip over to Sevenoaks, drew to a conclusion.

 

 

 

Trying to find my mojo

In my previous post about encouraging other people to take up writing about beer, or even to start their own blog, I mentioned that I was rarely lost for something to write about. Well, be careful what you wish for, as for the past few days, I’ve been stuck in just such a rut. I’ve got a few ideas formed now, as well as something more concrete, but after scrolling through some of the rambling jottings I knocked out on our return from last autumn’s Atlantic cruise, I realised there was sufficient material for a brief post.

After our departure from Madeira, Queen Victoria headed towards the Portuguese mainland and the sea port of Leixoes. The latter is the entry point for Porto, Portugal’s second largest city and the centre of the country’s renowned port wine trade. It was somewhere I’d wanted to visit for some time, not only because I’m partial to the occasional glass of Port, but because I’m interested in the way this legendary drink is produced, and the maturation process it goes through before reaching the customer’s glass. I’ve got some form in relation to this, because I started my career with a position in the wine trade, and the company I worked for were keen for their employees to expand their knowledge in this field.

I shall leave that particular story for another day but suffice to say I was excited to be visiting the centre, and indeed the home of what is probably Portugal’s most famous export. I'd booked a coach excursion for the pair of us into the centre of Porto, a drive of 30-40 minutes from the coastal port of Leixoes, where our cruise ship was berthed. The day before we were due to dock, I developed a really annoying summer cold which fellow cruisers identified as the infamous “Cunard Cough”. Such bugs are quite common onboard ship, and are probably spread around via the air-conditioning system, but over the course of the intervening sea day my symptoms worsened to the point that I agreed with Mrs PBT’s that I ought to abandon the excursion.

As my good lady wife pointed out, it wouldn't really have been fair for me to be coughing and spluttering over my fellow coach passengers, during the drive into Porto. I reluctantly agreed, and headed down to the Purser’s Office where, I fortunately managed to get cost of the excursion credited back to my account – less a small processing fee. I was really lucky and certainly used all my charm on the lady behind the shore excursions desk, as such trips aren't normally covered by the cruise line’s refunds policy.

The following morning, after a good night’s sleep, I typically felt much better, although I would definitely have been pushing my luck to try reversing my cancellation.  Despite missing out on the Port Houses of Porto, Eileen and I spent a quiet, but enjoyable day on board ship in Leixoes, where we were blessed with the proverbial wall to wall sunshine. The sea was calm seas and there was very little wind blowing. With most of Victoria’s passengers ashore, along with many of the crew, there was a nice quiet feel about the ship, with plenty of space to chill out and relax. I briefly ventured ashore, but only as far as the cruise terminal. There wasn't exactly a lot there, apart from a small souvenir shop, so I called in and bought a tin of sardines (well you’ve just got to, haven’t you?), plus a small ceramic Portuguese knick-knack for Mrs PBT’s.

I could see the beach, stretching out on the other side of the breakwater, and I found out, from one of the women at the shop that I could have got a bus there, into the port, and then to the beach. That would have been nice, if only just for a beer and an ice cream, but I had just gone back through security. I mentioned that to the shop staff, who just shrugged their shoulders in typical Mediterranean manner, and said “Don't worry go back, and then come through again, once you’ve been to the beach”. I didn’t, in the end, as it seemed poor compensation for having missed visiting one of Porto’s wine lodges. I'm rather fond of a glass or two, especially over the festive season and at the time of writing, I had a bottle left unopened, from the previous Christmas.

Our next port of call was the Spanish port city of Vigo, which is almost just around the corner from Leixoes, where the coastline changes from Portuguese, and back into Spanish territory. We’d been to Vigo on a previous cruise and it's a place where you literally walk straight off the ship and into the centre of town – or at least the dock area. Our previous visit took place on a Sunday, and with Spain being a staunch Catholic country, not many shops were open. This time it would be different, and the city would redeem itself as a good place to buy the odd present for the folks back home or, more importantly for us, a selection of Spanish cooking ingredients.

Now I’m going to end this part of the narrative, as I covered it earlier, and not long after we returned to the UK. For those with poor memories, or those who can’t be bothered to refer back, our ship was unable to dock at Vigo, thanks to a severe storm developing out in the Atlantic, and heading towards the Bay of Biscay. Rather than heading into the deepening depression, the captain took the decision to “run for home,” and we arrived safely back in Blighty after having missed the worst of whatever name the local Met Office had assigned to this annoying storm.

Back home, I reflected that there were quite a few places on the northern coast of Spain that probably aren’t affected by these Atlantic storms, as the exposed west coast. Bilbao is one such place, but I was thinking more of the Basque city of San Sebastian, located close to the border with France, and in that corner of the country where the coast heads off in a sharp, northerly direction. I might have referred to San Sebastian in the past, but 50 or so years ago, the previous Mrs PBT's and I spent the best part of a week in this attractive city, before heading south into the interior of Spain and ending up on the Costas – Alicante, to be precise. On that particular trip we travelled by train, after boarding a cross-channel ferry, as foot passengers, from Dover to Dunkirk. An early morning train took us to Paris, and after an overnight stop in the French capital, we took one of the fast Corail services southwards, towards the Spanish border.

For the train buffs amongst you, Corail pre-dated the super-fast TGV trains, and provided a fast, pleasant, clean and direct service between Paris and Bordeaux (and several other French cities). We found a cheap hotel in the city, which was a lot more industrial than we were expecting and, as in Paris, had to surrender our passports at reception, so they could be vetted by the local Gendarmerie.  I’m not sure when this practice ceased, but it was the same in Spain as well, although back then the country was ruled over by that nice man, General Franco!

From Bordeaux we took a slightly slower train crossing the border into Spain, at Irun where it was necessary to change trains, due to the different loading gauge of the Spanish railways. More train geekery coming up, as a change of country meant a change of trains, due to the fact that the Spanish railways operated on a wider gauge than the universal standard. I'm not sure if that still applies to Spanish rail system or whether the tracks have been converted to European standard gauge, but once onboard the local Spanish train, we continued our journey towards San Sebastian. My previous wife had spent for four months living and working in the city, as part of her Modern Languages degree course, so she knew the city well.

San Sebastian had a bright and airy feel to it, partly enhance by it situation overlooking the Bay of Biscay, but also by its fine architecture. I’m guessing the city emerged relatively unscathed from the Spanish Civil War. It did seem a little bit edgy back then, which was due to the activities the Basque separatist organisation ETA, who weren't averse to committing the odd atrocity. 

Their attacks were mainly aimed at government buildings, although there was the occasional bomb, timed to go off in a crowded market square. What was really nice about San Sebastian, was the cuisine, especially the seafood. If you’re a fan of fresh fish, lobster or crab, then this is the place for you, and the local wine wasn’t bad either. I can’t remember a thing about the beer, so if you do decide to visit the city, you will need to do your own research. The thing that was missing was the wall-to-wall sunshine I had been expecting, which of course brings us back to the situation that had preventing us from docking in Vigo, some 50 years later.

It’s time now to say goodbye to northern Spain, but if you’re not put off by strong westerly winds, and the odd bit of rain, then Vigo, La Coruna and San Sebastian are all well worth a visit.