A break from work, a desire to visit somewhere specific – find out where tomorrow – and a check of the map revealed multiple temptations, all nearby.
One of which was wet on a dry day. A tenner to get in, not sure it was worth the cost. I walked three kilometres there, only one avoidable backtrack the entire time, despite the spaghetti mess of a track I left.
Compare and contrast with the map they provided – I don’t recall teleporting across the Shropshire Union Canal!
The 10p/minute cost of being there included the time sat drinking a large mug of coffee, which was served far too hot, Highlights were the buildings, not the boats, although they did have a nice leisure canal boat upstairs.
They also have a boat made of concrete; it’s around 80 years old so it’s survived well.
As I didn’t leave the house until gone 11am and it was a fair drive up there, I didn’t try and overdo things and headed straight to tonight’s hotel.
I took the scenic route there, via the centre of Ellesmere Port. It’s a grim place, white working class, old cars. Clean streets. Ordinary people living ordinary lives; it felt like the England of my childhood, somewhere I belong.
The hotel looks just like the advertising!
Before dinner I strolled through the sunlit grounds to admire the fishing pond. The boathouse is lovely, the pond clearly full of life, signs of fish and two large brown ducks. Or maybe two small brown geese. I’m not sure. They treated me with caution either way, stepping off the bank and swimming away from me as I walked around the pond. I shall catch them unawares tomorrow morning with a zoom lens.
The pond is well set for fishing, a sign sadly informing hotel guests that it’s private, probably leased to the club. They’d left their club constitution on the wall of the boathouse, the usual attempts to proscribe good behaviour and impose the bureaucracy beloved by old men. The first two weeks fishing in June are restricted to members that help with maintenance or other club duties; enough names on the list to fill the fishing spots well positioned around the pond.
None of them had fished out the dead carp though, several pound of rotting piscine floating upside down just below the surface. The ducks/geese ignored it too; they probably investigated it a few days ago.
Dinner was in the hotel, starting well with a smile and nod when I asked for a big mug of black coffee. It didn’t arrive.
This sadly arrived with the plunger already depressed, too enthusiastically, the coffee not separated from its grinds. By the end of my third cup I had half an inch of grit at the base of my cup. The liquid part tasted good though.
The food was better, the menu set out by a proper chef, layers of flavours and carefully constructed dishes. I chose the lamb, ruined the chef’s design by rejecting the broccoli, was offered root vegetables instead. “Carrot would be nice, if that’s not too much trouble?”
I’m not sure how much trouble it was, but the carrots were done as the broccoli had been promised. I hadn’t rejected the burned iceberg; after trying it I realised I should have. Overall it was nice though.
As was pudding: fried banana bread with stuff.
It was nice, but I’m not convinced. Banana bread feels it should be kept simple, served warm from the oven with butter.