These boots are made for walkin' And that's just what they'll do.

 

Heading towards Solva

The sad events of last Saturday are now behind us. Don’t we do things well? I still find it a little macabre that poor old Phil has been taken down into the cellar in a lift and stuck on a shelf with loads of other “Royals” who seem to get moved in and out as required. 

Village pump, Solva.

I asked Julia if, when my time comes, she could just have me stuffed and sat in front of the telly.

“I might as well then no-one will notice the difference.” 

She’s all heart although I’d like to think that our Laithwaite’s wine order would be slightly reduced.

Solva harbour

This week there’s all the guff about some football league. I don’t pretend to understand it and I don’t particularly like football. I watched some game in 1966 that everyone raved about. It was in black and white and not very exciting so I never watched it again. Probably Jeremy Vine will get a 2 hour radio programme about it and I won’t listen to that either.

Solva backstreets

Nice to know that Harry scurried back across the pond on his wife’s instructions and didn’t stay for his Gran’s birthday bash. Please note that there are no rude comments about the “M” word!

Surfer at Newgale

But we’re having a ball here in Sir Benfro. Julia continues her trudge along the coastal path whilst I provide planning, admin, transport and catering. She has ambled over 100 miles and  reached Solva. Less than 80 miles to go now. Just as well. There’s a limit to my culinary skills and egg sarnies are having a bad effect on the air quality around Pembroke Dock. 

Solva