Right out of the Olden Times, here’s a postcard of Atlanta Fulton County Stadium before the first pitch or kick-off (and before the Beatles played here). I was waiting for Jackie and killing time in a charity shop in Bristol when I spotted this one, which is now on its way to Debra.
It’s from about 1966, I reckon. In 1996, it was superseded by Turner Field (built for the Olympics) which itself is too outdated for the corporate version of baseball (dragging its whore ass out to the suburbs to be safely away from black people who aren’t playing on the field). Fuck Atlanta.
The car park with the baseball diamond painted on it is the site of the photo at the top…our place was just right (and later left) of the midtown skyline in the distance.
We had already noted the 7 Stars having spotted it and the sign of the plough down an alley a few months earlier. Then, the Hairy Bikers (Dave and Si) did a series on Britain’s Historic Pubs and gave a bit of the history of this one: seems that the abolitionist Thomas Clarkson allied himself with the publican using the house as a centre for anti-slavery political actions. Most importantly, it is a proper bourbon bar (rare in this land) and serves up a wide range of this nectar of the gods.
We took our beverages to the Jazz Corner and listened to the chatter of the regulars overlain with the spectacular musical picks of the hosts. The place smells a bit but it has a heart of gold. Down an alleyway, so use this map.
We have not been disappointed by food in Bristol in years and a lot of it is down to getting the lunchtime set menus at places we otherwise couldn’t afford. At Aqua Italia, we got a bottle of wine then started sifting the primi and mains and I settled on a trout salad with watercress, walnuts, and horseradish sauce to start (truly spectacular). Then, I ploughed into my secondo of sea bass with chorizo, roasted potatoes, and black puddings when I realised that this technically qualified for the “fish and chips” count.
Sure, it is an insult to call it such since this was so much nicer than anything a sane man would call fish and chips. Apologies to the chef, and he is welcome to spit on my plate when I hasten back for another meal.
(Note: this post is a continuation of the 2014 Chippy Challenge, with all related entries linked to this map)
Jackie’s site visits took us to the University of Bristol the morning of Friday the 13th and left to my own devices for an hour I toured the campus then drifted into the Berkeley for nourishment. CAMRA promotes May as Mild Month and I usually don’t have a problem finding several on offer; but, alas, I settled for a not-so-mild-but-still-dark porter that I paid a pound more for just two days earlier (so this one tasted at least 25% better):
The house was overrun with lads from the building trade having group breakfasts. I don’t find the concept strange, per se, but it was after 10 am and I distinctly remember starting work around sunrise (or earlier) when I was a carpenter’s apprentice in 1979-81…these guys hadn’t even rolled into their job sites, yet. Fucking lay abouts (and not one of them was drinking a proper pint).
I’ve been popping these stickers in pubs where they will be found, eventually, and noted corrugation on the under-surface of my table. The photo shows some gum; the tables fold, so there’s no GOOD excuse not to clean them.
For directions, use this map.
The thin, brindle-and-white pit-bull surprised me down in Stockwell by nipping at the hat I was carrying. The run had been fairly solitary to that point and I could easily have done without the company. But, she was eager to play and I thought if I killed a couple of minutes with her the owner would emerge. However, there was always the danger that she was just running free and now I would be stuck with her (which I was) as we ran together toward Wells Road. I figured I could always just return the way I came if we got that far.
At the busy road, a skinny, middle-aged guy whistled and she ran toward him. “Alright, Nadja? Who’s your friend?” I said my name and told him about the puppy encounter. “Piotr lets her roam. No worries…I’ll get her home. Fancy a pint?” Of course, and so the three of us wandered up to the Yeoman.
It’s a fizzy bar, full of lagers and carbonated ciders and as part of the Sizzling chain it is kind of a diner, as well (but no one was dining at 11 am). I had a Blackthorn which is sort of an industrial cider and we talked a bit about the neighbourhood and the Trump candidacy for President but soon, like everyone else in the place, started focusing silently inward.
I surveyed the crowd of 6 other punters at six other tables and realised they were all wiry, mean-looking little fuckers. “Is this a jockey bar?” I asked and my partner shot me a look that said in no uncertain terms that I should probably refrain from following up on that line of inquiry. That the hardened hoodlums in this area are also diminutive made me smile so broadly that my mouth felt like it was going to crack. “I really need to get back on the trail, anyway,” I said, downing the rest of the cider and giving our Nadja a quick cuddle.
The start and end of the run was in an industrial park but there was one fairly interesting piece of architecture…not for the structure but for its decorative conceits. Lindo makes fairly nice guitars and ample amplifiers so if you find yourself in Bristol with a few hundred quid burning a hole in your pocket and some fret callouses going soft, maybe you should stop in:
With a 10:30 flight, I was at the Bristol Airport at breakfast time. Or, with the 40 minute wait for food (note: there were only a half-dozen or so other customers), continue-to-fast time. I ordered a breakfast Fosters and watched as my flight was delayed by 40 minutes…poop.