Tale guide

A bushman in England

After almost twenty-four months ‘locked down’, the bushman and Ann of Africa were delighted to seize an opportunity to ‘escape’ for an afternoon across the border in England.

It came about when the first warm days of summer descended on the Welsh countryside and when Ann’s closest and dearest cousin, Linda and her crackpot husband, Ian, decided to drive down to Chester for a long weekend of caravanning and exploring in the ancient walled city.

Chester is one of England’s oldest walled cathedral cities, founded by the Romans in 79AD as one of the many military forts built across the country at the time. Like so many English towns and cities, much of Chester has been carefully maintained and the town councils over the millennia have taken care to adapt the public roadways and canals to accommodate the advance of civilization with the very least amount of damage or alteration from the days when they offered throughways for people on foot, horseback, and wagons.

Many roads remain cobbled and the early bridges across the canals are still in use allowing alternating one-way vehicle traffic to pass. The main Eastgate street in the heart of the old city is entirely reserved for pedestrian traffic that passes hundreds of quaint shops and pubs and restaurants that are housed in buildings that date back to the eighteenth century and beyond, all along either side of the cobbled walkways.

Earlier that week while Ann of Africa was taking full advantage of a beauty salon, the bushman wandered the streets on a stroll of discovery taking in the genial atmosphere enhanced by an unusual day of warm sunshine.

He discovered a pub dating back to the 16th century as well as a wine bar where one could savour any number of exquisite varieties from across the world complemented by equally sumptuous cheeses and canapés for a little less than £100 per glass! (Ann wouldn’t let me inside!)

But on the day in question, Ian and Linda invited them for lunch at the Ship Inn, (I ship you not!), in the city. The pub’s website described its location as being ‘a short stroll over the Old Dee Bridge from the city walls. It’s steeped in local history where you will find a hearty welcome and quality, home-cooked food and a fully stocked bar with everything from local ales to premium gins.’

Sounded excellent, so they booked a table for 12h00 on the Friday and because they expected to be drinking a tad more than would be socially acceptable, the bushman booked a taxi to collect them at 11h30 and take them to the pub. But typical of things the bushman has organised much of his life, on the day in question, the taxi didn’t arrive.

He called the taxi controller who calmly advised that the driver had been waiting at the address for eight minutes and had to move on to collect the next customer.

“Impossible!” cried the bushman, “I’ve been standing here since twenty-five past and no taxi has appeared.” It was evident that they had the wrong address!

“Sorry sir, but the driver did wait for you. If you let me have your email address, I’ll send you the address as proof.”

“I don’t need an email,” said the bushman exasperated, “I need a lift! Can I order another taxi perhaps?” The controller maintained his professionally calm disposition. “Of course, sir, but you will need to wait another 25 minutes.”

“Sorry, I can’t wait! I’ll have to drive myself. Goodbye,” the bushman ended the call abruptly. So, Ann and her bushman jumped into their car, and he drove them to the Ship Inn, using, of course, the on-board navigation system to ensure they travelled directly to their destination in the shortest time.

As they reached the highway intersection leading into the city, they became caught up in a long traffic jam that moved forward at a frustratingly slow pace. But they were quite relaxed and in good spirits and looking forward to meeting up with their good friends.

The bushman weaved his way at about 20 miles per hour, along the narrow streets towards the inner-city walls and it wasn’t long before they pulled over outside the Ship Inn. Along the way they couldn’t help but notice hundreds of motor cars parked along the narrow roads, with the left hand, set of wheels up on the pavement so as to allow at least one vehicle to pass by at a time. Where they came upon a spare piece of open land alongside the road, cars had parked in every direction on the free space where there was no longer room for a mouse.

They noticed many groups of men and a few occasional women leaving the parked cars and casually walking towards the city. They were noticeable by their smart suits and ties and long summer dresses as well as the occasional trilby hat.

“There must be a wedding somewhere,” suggested Ann.

“Or maybe a funeral,” chirped the bushman.

Eventually, the bushman maneuvered the vehicle along the narrow streets, down a hill towards a single lane bridge over the river Dee, and up to the front door of the Ship Inn. He dropped Ann off to meet up with Linda and Ian inside and drove down a nearby lane alongside the main canal in search of a parking spot which he found almost immediately. He pulled in, collected his phone, locked the car and started walking away when he saw a small blue and white sign that said “Free parking for 30 minutes between 08h00 and 16h00 only. Parking under camera surveillance.” Oops!

Dutifully, the bushman got back into his car and drove off in search of some long-term parking. He called the pub on his phone kit. “Do you have a car park somewhere?” he asked.

“No sir,” came the reply, you could try up near the school.”

After about twenty minutes of driving around in ever expanding circles, including a visit to the school, every available parking spot was occupied and the traffic all around him seemed to increase in density the longer he stayed on the road. Eventually and somewhat flustered, he called Ann and explained that there was absolutely no parking available and as a result the only plan he could come up with, was to go home and then try and get a taxi back. As he made his way home considering that he may very well be spending the afternoon drinking alone, back in the pub Linda suggested that Ann should call ahead to the taxi company and try organising something which she dutifully did.

“Can I book a taxi from my home in the next thirty minutes?” she asked.

“It’s quite difficult today, Ma’am,” said the controller, “Its race day in Chester, so were pretty busy but let me see if I can make a plan!”

“Well,” said Ann, “can we please make sure you have the correct address, so the driver doesn’t go to the wrong place this time?” and proceeded to spell out the Welsh name of their house that is difficult to say at the best of times.

“No way!” thought the bushman when he heard the feedback, “no-one said it was race day. No wonder there isn’t a parking spot to be had in the whole of the city!”

He made it home, the taxi was on time and eventually he made it back to the Ship Inn.

Back in the pub an hour later than anticipated, the bushman found that he was a few drinks behind the starting block and the reunion was going swimmingly well.

On entering the Ship Inn, he had to push his way through a bar packed with grey-suited Englishmen who, shortly after, deserted the Inn and headed off to the racecourse leaving the remaining couples to quietly enjoy the afternoon.

“Wow,” he exclaimed to Ian after taking his seat, “I can’t believe that in this day and age, the English still wear suits and ties to the races! Pretty awesome tradition, I might add.”

“You wait until six tonight mate,” Ian retorted, “they will be shitfaced and broke in the Ship Inn to be sure!”

After a while of lively conversation, the bushman was prompted to recall a story concerning his lack of technical knowhow. It involved ordering a takeaway from a supposedly local Chinese restaurant using an on-line portal.

The pay and collect order had been meticulously selected on the website and the payment made via credit card. Later that afternoon he drove to the Shu Wong takeaway to pick up his dinner. The Chinese lady behind the counter looked surprised.

Using his best Chinese interpretation the bushman understood “No order here! No have intanet (sic) here. You go addur Shu Wong in Wrexham. They have intanet!”

“But the other Shu Wong takeaway is eight miles away on the other side of town,” protested the bushman.

“Solly,” came the quick response, “maybe you place new order here, yes?”

“Shuuuush,” said Linda, pointing frantically over his shoulder, “there’s a table of Chinese people sitting right behind you!”

The bushman dropped his voice a couple of decibels and continued his journey to the other Shu Wong, found his order but was unable to pay for it because their card machine had croaked.

“But no wollies sah. You jus take order and pay annudder day!”

Which is what duly happened. Great service, friendly people, big fuel bill!

A great afternoon passed very quickly as they always do and before we knew it, the races were over and the punters started to stream back into the pub. By this time the fact that taxis were once again in short supply didn’t really bother us.

“Let’s have another one,” said Ian, now buoyed by plenty of good British ale and the upstanding company! He jumped up and elbowed his way through the three deep crowd clamoring for a drink at the bar. Not five minutes later he was back, clutching a fresh bottle of Italian Pino Grigio for the girls and two half pints for us.

‘Here we go,’ said the bushman to himself, ‘be a man and don’t let the side down now.’

Then, raising his glass, his good Yorkshireman mate lent forward and in earnest said, “four men walked into their usual pub in Huddersfield and were surprised to see a new sign on the counter that said, ‘Welcome Bar, all drinks 10p.’ Convinced that there must have been a mistake, they called for a pint each and were charged 10p each. Somewhat bewildered they asked the barman what was going on.

‘Well,’ answered the barman, ‘the pub is under new management by a South African who bought the place with his Lotto winnings, and he’s decided to run this special for the entire month as a sort of an advertising stunt.’ So, once they’d finished their pints, they decided to order a whisky each and low and behold, the bill came to 40p. Now clearly happy with the arrangement, they ordered yet another round shortly thereafter.”

Ian sat back a smiled mischievously before taking a good swig of his pint and picked up the thread again.

“As they sat quietly enjoying their good fortune, they noticed a group of old Yorkshiremen had walked into the pub and gathered around the top of the bar but noticeably refrained from ordering a drink. They just sat there as if waiting for something.

“What’s goin’ on there?” asked one of the men of the barman.

“They’re pensioners waiting for Happy Hour when drinks are half price,” came the reply.