Laughing (beef) stock

As the end of our overseas experience draws nigh, we naturally started to think about the places and things we are yet to see and do. Our ambition was - and still is - to visit as many countries as we can (without sacrificing the “experience” part of the exercise). So it was that we booked two train tickets for a quiet weekend in Wales - or so we thought. It was neither quiet, nor Wales for that matter.




We pulled into the station early on Friday evening, both of us were impressed by how similar it looked to every other town in Britain. Hungry for local cuisine, we asked at our hotel reception for the closest place serving Welsh beef. The buxom receptionist looked at us blankly and said, “Tescos”. Her accent was suspiciously non-Welsh, which should have set off alarm bells (but more of that later).

Never discouraged, wrapped up in woollies, we set off into the misty chill of the evening. The yonder bay-side lights seemed to promise the warmth of a pub where we would surely eat a rich and delicious dinner whilst listening to cheerful and melodic Welsh voices joining together in merriment.

With our expectations set to high, we made our way across a park, straining ours eyes to avoid the chocolate sausages. We passed a large WHSmith and then a Boots before sighting the Tesco's we had heard so much about.

The sound of singing finally drew us to a cosy-looking pub, but what we thought was singing turned out to be a Vodafone commercial on TV. Still, the place was pleasant enough. We respectfully declined a table by the men's room and were shown to the only other available table in the basement, which, once our eyes adjusted, had real ambience.

Dinner was seriously superb. Welsh beef was conspicuously absent from the menu so we opted for soup, pâté, spring chicken and lamb shanks. "Why such a lavish meal when you are on such a tight budget?” I hear you ask. Well, actually, it was our pre-anniversary dinner (one year until we are married) and we were celebrating!

We washed down our Fosters and made to pay for the bill. "Do you take Pounds Sterling?" I asked the young waitress. She was French and it was her first night so she had to ask her manager. I nodded to Weisie reassuringly, and said "Don't worry, if they don't, we can always use plastic." The waitress returned. "Monsieur," she said, "of course you may pay with your English money" (the last part sounded painful for her to say). I peeled off a few notes and left a handsome tip, thinking to myself, “of course the Welsh accept Pounds…”

We bought a bottle of bubbly and took a slightly different route back to the hotel, passing a Marks & Spencer, a BHS and a Sainsbury, oddly enough. Thankfully, we did not encounter any crap crêpes as we navigated our way back through the park. Given the hour, we saved the bubbly and turned in for the night.




Next day, we realised we were not in Wales - we were tipped off by the weather man. Portsmouth, where we were, is in Southern England. Plymouth, which has a similar name, is in Wales. On the upside, it was raining in Plymouth but a full day of sunshine was forecast for Portsmouth.

Notwithstanding the forecast, it was cold and blustery during the day. We heard plenty of "Arr, me maties," and "Thar she blows". Shoulder-perched parrots named Polly were apparently fashionable and we imagined that every other person had a wooden peg. We spent the day around the harbour, visiting the new commercial docklands (under the full-flying, iconic Spinnaker Tower) and the old dockyards.




As an Australian, it was quite impressive to see the site from where some of the tall ships set sail, carrying the brave and/or brutal to colonise our great country. We also learnt much about Lord Nelson, the Battle of Trafalgar and HMS Victory (the ship on which Horatio met his maker). It was all stirring stuff.




We stayed up late on Saturday night, ordered room service, sipped bubbly and enjoyed the view from our hotel room. We planned to visit the few remaining sights we missed that day before taking the early afternoon train back to London.

At around 5:30 am, the fire alarm went off for the first time. I jumped out of bed, hair awry, frantically searching for the offending alarm clock. Failing to find one, I realised what it was and crawled back into bed with a pillow over my head. Weisie suggested that there may be a fire and by the time she talked me around to her logic, we were the last two to join a throng of bedraggled people standing in the frosty car park. Some people were in pyjamas and shoeless, but we took the time to do our hair and pack our bags.

Eventually, we were let back in but an hour later (just enough time to doze off) we were shepherded out of the building again. The fire brigade came each time. By the fifth time this happened, it was around 8:30 am and we had given up on sleep. We were sitting in the hotel restaurant having breakfast and refused, along with everyone else, to leave the building.

Having had Chablis with our roast lunch in a different harbour-side pub, and having seen everything there was to be seen in Portsmouth, including a fantastic little aquarium, we returned to our little home in Fulham, refreshed, recharged and ready for another adventure.