Bohemian Liverpool.

Two blog posts from former times combined. Yes, really, read one, get one free.

No, that’s not G, it’s George Melly. Easy to confuse them though.

Marigold Says…

Boosters now done and dusted and. Finally released from Covid restrictions, we’re almost ready for the off. No idea where we’re going yet, but that’s a minor detail. Have started to pack, unpack and prod stuff into holes in boxes and cases. G bought a bundle of plastic plates etc for a pound, but seeing as we already have a cupboard full, a legacy of our years spent on the road in vans, was not really necessary.

We are not connoisseurs of picnic eating on the road, the choice is always the same, banana sandwiches, triangle cheese on crackers and for a real treat ham on crunchy bread. Crunchy bread has to know its place as it is banned from the car. Crumbs. We certainly don’t get our five a day while traveling but have survived somehow. Does a pickled onion count as one or Branson pickle? If that is the case we are overloaded.

I remember once stopping at a French Aire and unpacking our lunch. A French couple on the next table in a showoffy way unloaded theirs which was jars of pate, boiled eggs, salad and French bread and a gateau. G shuffled round a bit to shield the sight of ours, think it was an apricot jam day, and guess what they invited us to share theirs. Marvellous, funny how hungry you get when someone else has done the cooking.

G asked what I wanted to do today. I Immediately said ‘graveyard’. What is more interesting than knowing the length of someone’s life without nasty news in between. I am immediately off to make sandwiches and a flask. We can sit then and ponder firstly on interesting names and also wonder what they died of. Morbid, no, a wonderful treat for us.

When we are in Europe we love the ones with photos, some handsome, some beautiful and some quite frankly ugly. On seeing 2 members of a family who had died in France it was a relief that the miserable looking father called Pierre had produced a wonderfully handsome son but unfortunately he had died early. The graves generally are looked after and plastic along with real flowers abound, and sometimes wonderful ornaments which are safely left.

We saw one once with lots of miniature motorbikes which tells its own story. A really interesting one also was of a smiling man and alongside it a picture of a clown, which hopefully was his job and not an attempt at humour at such a sad time. Maybe the funeral was attended by circus people who would have had lots to laugh about. Hopefully he hadn’t been eaten by a lion.

Was just reading there is a library for borrowing machinery, ie bread and pasta makers, even ukuleles. Well I for one welcome such news, having had two bread makers, one of which set fire after I over indulged it with dried fruit and it threw the raisins out onto the element and smoked the place out.

You could also set it so you had a hot loaf to wake up to. Trouble is G gets up first, so there would probably be loads of clanking and him interrupting my kip with questions of ‘what to do with it now’. Much easier to have a bowl of cereal or a piece of toast. We would also eat the lot and then be submerged in dough for the rest of the day.

On the other hand Sundays could be filled with the aroma of bread, G playing the ukulele and me driving a sit on mower, all borrowed, ready to be returned on Monday. What a palaver. Machinery would rule our lives.

Marigold trying to pretend it’s not going to rain any minute.

G Says…

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you may remember what happened to our ill considered first effort at camper van ownership: the Citroen van discovered in a barn that ended up in Liverpool. Almost thirty years after that trip to see the van in its new guise, we turned up in Lark Lane again last week.

We drove through Sefton Park, a Grade One listed park, at one time part of the 2,300-acre Royal Deer Park of Toxteth. There aren’t any deer around the place these days, but the Liverpool 8 district encompassing Toxteth, the epicentre of serious rioting 40 years ago is now rather genteel. Yes, that’s a relative term, but I read last week that Toxteth has seen the biggest surge in house prices this year in the whole of England. We’re both long term fans of Georgian terraced houses and Toxteth is awash with them, so it’s no great surprise.

Sefton Park has a lake, several statues, all the flora and fauna you’d expect to find in a long-established inner city park, but it’s the magnificent Palm House that’s the main attraction and that’s graced Sefton Park since 1896. During World War 2, Liverpool was the most heavily bombed area outside of London, my grandparents’ house being just one of the many that were reduced to rubble, and one particular raid shattered all the glass within the Palm House. Repairs were eventually made, but the work was evidently carried out by ‘cowboy builders’ as every pane of glass fell out again within a few years. The ‘wrong sort of putty,’ apparently.

The last time we were here the Palm House was a virtual ruin, but following a lengthy campaign it was restored to its former splendour and it now looks magnificent. Sadly, we didn’t go inside so couldn’t check if the palm tree I remember looking a tad sickly last time I visited was still there, but I asked around in Lark Lane and the famous palm tree is apparently flourishing once more.

Moving on, we parked in Ivanhoe Road, right next to our intended destination and where the jazz singer and all round odd bod George Melly was born and spent his entire early life. I was a big George Melly fan, both as a charismatic live performer and as an erudite and extremely opinionated film critic. We walked up and down Ivanhoe Road, not a blue plaque in sight. Disappointing.

We were obliged to walk into Lark Lane itself as there’s a one way system in place now; a Covid related scheme intended to keep us all safe. The locals aren’t big fans. The owner of one of the shops I remembered very well, an antique shop with the wonderful name ‘Remains to be Seen,’ had appropriated a great many of the hideously inappropriate traffic cones and displayed them in his shop front under the caption ‘a load of bollards.’ Good man, we thought.

We wandered around. Meandered may be a better description. We loved the eclectic mix of shops and the almost uniquely cosmopolitan nature of our fellow browsers. Places we remembered and places that have sprung up in more recent times. Lark Lane is rather like the Portobello Road in miniature, not as upmarket as Totnes, it has its own niche among our favourite places.

Haile Selassie the Emperor of Ethiopia, lived in exile on Waverley road just off Lark Lane during World War 2. My Uncle Joe, a merchant seaman on the convoy ships during the war, while on shore leave came across The Emperor on several occasions, always accompanied by a retinue of bodyguards.

The Albert is still around, one of the legendary pubs of Liverpool and still ensconced firmly in ‘boozer’ category. The day The Albert offers champagne and canaps to its clientele we will know we have entered a parallel universe. Thirsty matelots from the Merchant Navy long since adopted The Albert as their local when in port and it still retains that rough and ready ambience. For those wanting more, Lark Lane by night is transformed with crowds thronging the street and the scores of bars and restaurants all doing good business. We’re here in the daytime and it’s very different, yet just as interesting.

Our former favourite cafe has long since disappeared, a serious blow, but we were not exactly short of options. While Marigold attempted to decipher a shopkeeper’s ripe Scouse accent, failing dismally while understanding only one word in ten, I broke a solid rule and took a look at an upstairs cafe. They’re steep stairs too, very far removed from anything I would normally contemplate, but one glance inside was enough.

I nipped back to Marigold, do a quick translation and allow her to buy a pair of wacky earrings.*

*Marigold only ever wears wacky earrings. She doesn’t do ‘normal’ which makes us both very happy.

‘Brilliant,’ Marigold said as we walked up the stairs to The Third Cafe. Yes, that’s exactly the word. Walls covered in artwork, picture and posters illogically grouped, and no sense of conformity whatsoever, the owner has definitely nailed the elusive art of presenting the venue. When something ‘just works’ it’s such a joy.

There’s seating, unmatched obviously, on the first and second floors and the food on offer just blew us away. Okay, it’s vegetarian/vegan, hardly a prerequisite for us, but once again, we were reminded of the skill involved in attaining excellence like this in a deliberately haphazard manner.

After spending an inordinately long time looking at the choices on offer, we both chose very similar dishes. This just does not happen. Ever. We order different dishes, then we swap half way through. It’s our system. I should add we don’t do this ‘in company,’ only when it’s just us. Two bowls of salad, with bread and a few side dishes, may not sound much, but this was a great breakfast.

Mozzarella and Halloumi cheese, baby tomatoes and the sun-dried version as well with basil and crunchy soda bread along with a real treat, Rose harissa. We know all about harissa, a spicy sauce from Tunisia which can be very fiery indeed, but rose harissa contains both rose water and dried rose petals which takes away the bite of the chillies. We love it and just one tiny taste brought back so many memories of times in North Africa. In Algeria, we once tried a version of the harissa spice blend containing finely chopped apricots, but have never found that anywhere since. Marigold vowed to attempt to recreate it one day, it’s not happened yet.

We both wished we lived nearer, this would be our ‘local’ on a daily basis. We chatted to the owner, I think her name was Carol, after praising everything, including the superb soda bread. This is her third cafe, hence the name, and she’s transferred over to Lark Lane from Green Days, a cafe/restaurant situated on the other side of the Park.

I went upstairs and found two old men nursing cups of coffee in a corner.

‘You’re not thinking of coming up here, lad, are yer? Private club, this. Members only.’

Marigold would have apologised and darted back down the stairs, but I took a seat at a table opposite the speaker.

‘Worth a try,’ he said as they burst out laughing. ‘It’s worked up till now.’

They explained they were brothers and hiding out from ‘the tyranny of women,’ specifically their daughters who had planned to take them into the city centre to choose outfits for a wedding. I sympathised and vowed to keep their secret.

That ‘tyranny of women’ remark suggested a background completely at variance with face value as they were both unshaven, not in a well groomed sense, and wearing clothes that most people wouldn’t even wear to put the bins out at dead of night and so it proved. Both brothers had been doctors, in Rodney Street no less, widely regarded as Liverpool’s version of Harley Street.

Old men, far older than me so that means ancient, and happy to pass the time of day with strangers can be richly rewarding company and I was delighted to see Marigold arrive in the doorway. She loves a bit of ‘craic’ with eccentrics and these two qualified in every sense. Marigold got the full treatment, the very warmest of welcomes and I was relieved to see the tyranny of women reservations didn’t extend beyond their immediate family.

We talked about trams, the Pier Head, barrow boys, the Beatles, football, the Overhead Railway, the devastating effect of container ships on dock workers, Derek Hatton and the Militant Tendency era of local politics, all of which were familiar subjects to me and quite a few other subjects about which I knew nothing. Talking about the first arrival of C and A in the city one of the men was told by his mother that C and A stood for ‘caps and ‘ats.’ He insisted he believed this to be the case for the next five years.

Mainly, we just listened as the brothers were on a roll. ‘That was special,’ said Marigold as we walked back downstairs. Indeed it was. If you’re at all interested in the Social History of an area, locate a couple of garrulous old men in a pub or a caf and just let them talk.

Outside it had started to rain. We ran over the road into yet another bar/caf/restaurant, this time it was The Bookbinder, owned by the same man who runs Love and Rockets and Polidor, two Lark Lane venues best described as ‘lively’ by night. We’d already had breakfast over the road so this would be just a coffee stop until the rain eased off.

The place was pretty full, possibly because it was raining outside, but I suspect it’s always this busy as there were many ‘full English’ breakfasts being served and they did look inviting. A noisy table for six opposite us were causing Marigold’s brow to crease. ‘Can’t tell a word they’re saying,’ she whispered. Ah, is there a worse crime than a group of people speaking loudly in a restaurant, but other diners still unable to hear the conversation? I tried my best, my useless deaf ears flapping, but couldn’t work out what language was being spoken.

A passing waitress said she thought they were speaking Brazilian. We didn’t bother to tell her there’s no such language as they speak Portuguese in Brazil, but we’re familiar enough with Portuguese to rule that out.

Our experience with foreign tourists in England trying out our breakfast options is varied. Either they want the full works or they treat every single offering with deep suspicion. When we first lived in France, admittedly in a rural area of the Loire Valley, our French neighbours would rather starve than accept anything even vaguely suggestive of being ‘English food.’

In their houses we ate escargots, frogs’ legs, improbable meals created from the parts of animal the rest of the world regards as inedible, some of it fairly disgusting ‘ gizzard, served ‘rare’ a case in point – but we ate it all and never refused anything. Just simple manners. Sadly, even a cup of tea, if it was English ‘builders tea’, was treated with great suspicion.

Things have obviously moved on and the next generation of ‘foreigners’ entering the U.K. seem far more willing to risk the food served up over here. I read a remarkable statement recently in the The Lonely Planet Guide to Britain ‘ this is a direct quote – ‘tourists tend to enjoy traditional English breakfasts because they don’t eat such things at home. If they did, they would die.’*

*Yes, that really is an absolutely accurate quote, in an odd context.

Marigold spent a good half hour ‘chatting’ in Larks, a ‘sort of boutique,’ according tothe the young woman behind the counter. The chief subject of conversation appeared to be exotic ear rings, but as I had little to contribute, make that nothing at all, I wandered around for a while and on my return the ear ring topic had now moved on to big, dangly necklaces. Talk about a shared interest.

We left, eventually, Marigold now the owner of yet another pair of eye catching ear rings.

We couldn’t leave Lark Lane without asking about one of its most memorable residents. All I knew was there was no chance he was still alive. We were directed back to Remains to be Seen Antiques and immediately spotted a reference to Mojo above the door.

Mojo was unforgettable, but as I had already guessed was no longer with us. He was an Alsatian who visited just about every shop on the Lane and took up residence wherever the mood took him. He didn’t move much, in fact he slept most of the time, but once he had settled on a place to rest there was no shifting him. Mojo seemed indifferent to humans, not unfriendly just disinterested. All that mattered was getting his head down for a kip and humans would just have to put up with it if he chose to sleep across the entrance to a shop.

Which was invariably the case. I can vividly remember stepping over Mojo in the doorway of the Amorous Cat bookshop on more than one occasion. When he died the community raised money for a commemorative plaque honouring his residency in Lark Lane.

George Melly, Haile Selassie and Mojo, what an eclectic group of former residents. Lark Lane is a one off, just a short, narrow street in this most cosmopolitan of all British cities, yet it has a unique character. Liverpool evolves, as all cities do, to suit the times we live in, but almost everything I remember from my first ever visits to The Lane so many, many years ago is still the same. That Bohemian vibe I always associate with the 1960s, it’s still here. The characters who gravitate to such places, they’re still very much in evidence. It’s no time warp theme setting, this is a real place with real people, but there’s a cosy familiarity and a link with past times, that I found wonderfully comforting, living as we do in a world obsessed with change for its own sake.

We’re finally off on the road very soon, it’s imminent, so expect a resumption of our travel blog very soon after a very long intermission. No idea where we’re going, spontaneity is de rigueur.

Marigold Says…

Back again. Have just read the formal dinner party is dying out. Hoorah. There is nothing more scary than being invited to a table full of mostly strangers and being seated forcefully next to somebody with opposite views and interests to your own. We once went to one many years ago and the sole topic of conversation for about two hours was hill walking and opera. I wanted to sing in a very loud voice ‘G, get your coat on and let’s leg it’.

The fear of hosting dinner parties must be off the scale. I haven’t got many plates that match and why care anyway? It is very 1960s and the other problem is peoples’ eating habits. In the old days we had never heard of a vegetarian and if we had they were considered another species to be ignored. A plus was they only ate quiche with a salad of lettuce and tomatoes with a pickled onion.

The only milk sold was full cream or Steri delivered to your door with the top pecked off as bird flu had never been heard of. If you had said to somebody do you want oat, soya, coconut, lactose free or aunty Mary’s dirty washing up water in your coffee, they would have shown you the door.

We were behind a woman in a queue for coffee recently and she ordered a coffee with some syrupy stuff in it, topped off with squirty cream, sprinkles and tiny marshmallows. This was the best bit, she took the marshmallows out and gave them to her cockapooo who then started barking. G said it had overdosed on E numbers.

We like bbq’s where you know what you are getting, burnt sausages, warm beer and a paper plate that flings your food into your lap. Marv.

I am very jealous about people in supermarkets who have hoity toity snobby carrier bags which fit in a square manner in the boot or the trolley. G has a thing about screwed up carrier bags and will not throw any away. I found one the other day with a receipt four years old, a cough sweet and a free coupon for tinned prunes. A marvellous find as I can compare prices then and now. If you spent over £5 you could fill up your car for free and get a packet of hobnobs. Those were the days.

Before we re-use old carrier bags they have to be shaken and aired. Because G was Matt Hancock’s favourite due to him being classified‘England’s Most Vulnerable VIP’ – may not be the exact wording – and had to be protected, we were totally incarcerated during Covid initially and we had groceries delivered in carrier bags so we have many. He even rates them according to performance. Interestingly Sainsburys comes bottom. We have mind boggling conversations round the camp fire.

We went past the fish shop who are now battering fish and you take it home and finish it off. That has just read as if they are killing them but rest assured they were dead. G sent me in as he fancied one for his tea.

He greedily said ‘get the biggest’. My turn came and Mrs Fish Face the owner gave me instructions I hadn’t asked for on the best cooking regime, hot oven, etc. She said cook it on a wire rack to let the fat drip through. The way she said it sounded revolting.
The queue behind me was getting bigger. She then said in a very loud voice ‘have you got an air fryer’. I wanted to say ‘Yes and an electric toothbrush with a light on’. So now people must experience Air Fryer shame.

G Says…

October 2022.

It’s our anniversary, 53 years in fact, but of course one glance at Marigold is enough to realise I married her when she was 6. One glance at me would suggest I was in my 40s on our wedding day! Neither is true, by the way!

I’d offered Marigold a choice, anywhere in the World, as a venue for celebration, she said, Lark Lane’ in Liverpool. Yes, she’s still a cheap date.

Back to Lark Lane.

On arrival in Lark Lane I parked in one of the side streets off the Lane itself. It was a street containing simple terrace houses with immense ‘kerb appeal’ in estate agent speak. Flowers everywhere, everything beautifully cared for. As I was taking a photograph of a sign that’s fascinated me for a while a voice from above called out, ‘can I help you, love?’

A woman, invisible from below, was calling out to us from a partly opened upstairs window. I could barely hear what she said, but of course Marigold and the invisible woman were soon chatting away like old friends. The tribulations of an unwell grandson were among the subjects raised. Apologies for the resulting written account, the circumstances were not ideal.

‘I took ‘im up the hozzy but they said it were just wear and tear’ ‘ ‘hozzy’ being the hospital ‘ ‘and I give ’em down the banks, he’s only seven, he’s not had chance yet to wear any bits out.’

Marigold expressed appropriate reactions to what turned out to be developing into a life story and we eventually moved on. Ear rings were chosen and purchased, plus a couple of knick knacks ‘ Lark Lane specialises in knick knacks. Sally, the owner of Freida Mo’s, rarely fails to offer something we like and today it was ear rings, two pairs, both located by me. I know what Marigold likes!

Freida Mo’s serves coffee and cakes as well as quirky and vintage accessories. We didn’t pick out a cake on this occasion as we had our minds set on lunch. Lark Lane is a special place in so many ways and as just one example, all the unsold cakes left over at the end of the day are left outside in bags tied to the railings. Free food for those less fortunate residents of The Lane who are experiencing hard times.

We admired the recently added mural above Number 13. I usually chat to Phil, the owner of Number 13, but he was too busy today for idle banter. His shop, Number 13 is long established and his wife, Jill, owns Larks on the opposite side of the road. I believe they also own the vintage furniture warehouse whose fabulous sign I had photographed earlier.

The mural above Number 13 was painted by a well known, to me anyway, street artist Liam Bononi. The owner of a neighbouring shop who had watched the mural’s development at every stage told us it represents ‘hope’ in these uncertain times. The prominent lark, an obvious choice in Lark Lane, is a symbol of hope and ‘the sweet silver song of a lark’ is a direct link to Liverpool football club’s famous anthem, You’ll Never Walk Alone.

We went for a pre lunch quick coffee, not strictly necessary, but we love the Third Cafe so much it’s impossible not to go in when we’re in the area. As usual, we found odd characters in there with equally odd views to impart. A man in his sixties, with a man bun hairstyle and wearing a sleeveless vest ‘ it was clean at least, yet massively unsuited to the season as it was quite nippy outside ‘ had a tattoo on his arm declaring ‘This is the strangest life I have ever known.’ I think it’s a Jim Morison quote, applicable if so to the wearer’s age, and I quite liked it. I am violently anti tattoo, but if you must have one, at least let it be something outside the norm.

I listened attentively to an earnest young man explaining the philosophical bullet points of why further education, or indeed any education, is worthless. His reasoning was flawed, but there was no doubting his passion. Marigold went off to talk to the young lad behind the counter when my philosophy debater moved on to climate change. Interestingly he was a denier, rare these days, but had innumerable statistics to offer proving his point. Without wishing to cause offence I only tentatively suggested the latest figures he was espousing, if correct, ran counter to his main argument. He thought for a moment before responding with yet more unlikely ‘evidence’ to back up his beliefs.

‘You obviously went to a very good school,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t seem to have been entirely wasted. Perhaps we should give education of the young on this subject a while longer, see how it works out.’

He didn’t seem impressed by that idea. I escaped, finally, and found Marigold talking to a woman at the counter about her last bout of cystitis, the woman’s, not Marigold’s. I couldn’t imagine having any useful input to that conversation. I very nearly went back for another climate change lecture and the benefits of abandoning education, but went to my own seat in the window instead and sat down to finish my coffee.

An old man, so old I wondered how he had managed to climb the (quite steep) stairs to get here in the first place, waved an arm at the young philosopher whose company I had recently abandoned.

‘He’s got some rattle, that feller,’ he said with the absence of tact that develops with advanced age. His voice would have been heard by everyone, but it soon became apparent he lacked a ‘filter’ and passed several disparaging comments on fellow users of the cafe. I was just happy that Marigold was spared.

My new friend, ‘call me Joey,’ ‘ he didn’t specify if that was his name or just a name he wanted to use on that day ‘ turned out to be fascinating. A rabid Liverpool FC fan since his youth, when he mentioned standing in the Boy’s Pen in the 1950s my interest was piqued. My first visit to Anfield, the third Liverpool cathedral, was in 1953. I was aged seven and went on my own. Initially by bus to the city centre and then followed the crowd to Anfield. Quite a long walk for seven year old legs, but we all walked far more back then.

I’d been strongly recommended to go in the Boys Pen, a caged enclosure in a section of the famous Kop, on the grounds of cheapness and safety. It was cheaper, but certainly not very safe. The Boys Pen was a scary place, all young lads crammed in together and I was fortunate to escape any of the violence and abuse that was being handed out. In the 1950s any group of young males, free of adult supervision, would tend to adopt what we now term antisocial behaviour. I saw plenty of violence, much ‘what are you looking at’ aggression and countless pushing and shoving episodes, but despite going there on very many occasions I was never a victim. It was perfect training for wannabe cage fighters.

I was one of the smallest, the actual viewing position was woeful and Liverpool, the team, were, quite frankly, rubbish. That was the season Liverpool were relegated to the Second Division. Bill Shankly, the managerial genius who resurrected the club wouldn’t arrive for another six years. Despite it all, I was hooked and have been ever since.

My earliest football hero was Billy Liddle whose prowess was such that the team were called Liddlepool due to his goal scoring exploits carrying along inferior players. I was amazed on graduating from the Boys Pen to adult standing areas to realise that I could now see the whole of the pitch and, despite being surrounded by thousands of noisy and aggressive grown men, finally felt safe.

‘Call me Joey’ had a similar experience and followed The Reds home and away for the next dozen years until circumstances prevented him. ‘I went away for a long time,’ he confided, ‘not proud of that, but can’t complain. I got caught, off I went.’

I didn’t pursue the topic.

Finally, we get to eat something

When Marigold arrived back from the counter she was giggling uncontrollably. ‘That woman who just left,’ she said, I hadn’t even noticed her, ‘she was on her ‘phone and she said, “I literally did an LOL out loud.” I couldn’t stop laughing and the lad behind the counter spilt the coffee.’

Joey looked at her in obvious bafflement. I introduced Marigold, he stood up, not an easy process, and bowed, respectfully.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, ‘would you mind giving that to the lad behind the counter?’ He placed a twenty pence piece on the table and shuffled off.

A harassed looking woman arrived with two young children in tow. ‘They’re not mine,’ she confided as if getting her excuses in early, ‘I’m minding them for a friend who’s got gout and can’t face running after these two all day.’ We nodded. We weren’t all that interested in their provenance. Both children ordered muffins with hot chocolate to follow and, acting entirely independently, proceeded to lick their muffins while glaring at the other child.*

I recognised the action; my sister was always convinced anyone within a hundred yards of her was on the verge of stealing the food on her plate and took steps to make it less palatable by licking. Both these children acted as if instinctively – food arrives, lick it to deter thievery. I often wondered if the system continues into adulthood. I must ask my sister.

Marigold’s excessive politeness causes problems at times. The childminding woman decided Marigold needed someone other than me to talk to and engaged her in banal conversation, mostly relating to television reality shows about which Marigold knows nothing and is content with her ignorance.

No matter, the woman wanted to vent so vent she did. The cavalry arrived when the garrulous woman’s phone rang. On answering it her voice dropped in pitch but raised by several sectors of society. She had been speaking until now in an understated Scouse accent, but on the phone she sounded like a Duchess. Even the two children stopped squabbling for a moment and went into fits of giggles.

This had been intended as a brief coffee stop, but invariably in Lark Lane conversations between strangers spring up quite readily and we ended up spending an hour over that ‘quick coffee.’

*In case you were wondering; I didn’t steal either of the well licked muffins.

We made our escape, not forgetting to hand over Joey’s twenty pence. We had assumed it to be a tip, but the lad told us Joey had been coming in every day since they opened and the owner only charged him 20p for a coffee so he could ‘have a warm and a sit down.’

By now we had very little time to look at options for lunch, the concept of deciding on a venue and booking ahead is beyond us, and settled on The Old School House. They had a wood fired pizza oven going full pelt which certainly took the chill off. Today was to be Marigold’s choice, she was happy with her food choice of a Thai curry while I had fish and chips, perfect in every way with, again Marigold’s choice, Dandelion and Burdock to drink.

See, I told you she is still a cheap date.