R*n 948: Galgate

I stirred myself from slumber this morning more bright than early, realising that I was in Morecambe from the familiar, faint hum of the morning traffic on the main road outside my bedroom window. I recalled having already sent birthday greetings to my wife in Moscow shortly after midnight, which afforded me the luxury of some contentment and relaxation, in the confidence that I had at least got my priorities right for the day. 

The next challenge for a retiree living by his own means was to organise breakfast. The avocado perched at a convenient distance from the worktop in my kitchen wasn't yet ready for the knife, so I opted for plan B, involving the eggs and tomatoes, patiently sat in the fridge. I was just short of bread, which needed to be fresh. While the nearby Asda is the most convenient option for most things, my preference for bread these days, while in the UK, is Sainsbury's. They do something they call a baton from their Taste the Difference option and I go for the multiseed wholewheat version.

The short 10 minute walk to the store was hardly an issue. Being greeted by a void, where my bread should have been, was disappointing, to say the least. I didn't despair, though. The girls in the bakery at the back of the store seemed to concur that my items had been overlooked, but that I could expect to receive a freshly baked baton in my hand, shoud I be prepared to wait 15 minutes. It was a deal. I killed the time in unfamiliar fashion, browsing the shelves and comparing prices and availability to Moscow and Pattaya. The girls were good to their word and after 15 minutes I was negotiating barcodes and approvals and emerging back into an unselttled and rather wintry August morning with both success and the added bonus of a packet of wholewheat fusilli to replenish stocks.

I was going to knock up my own version of menemen, a Turkish breakfast favourite. Instead of scrambling the eggs together with the tomatoes, I would make an omlette like my Mum once taught me and then, after making the final central fold, use the other half of the pan to fry the chopped tomatoes separately. As I am running down stocks before I leave, the dish benefitted from half a chopped onion as well as the amazing pomegranate vinegar. In addition to this rare gem, my omlettes, as well as salt and pepper, have garlic and Italian seasoning in the mix. The bread just got cut up into handy pieces and placed in a bowl next to a saucer with plenty of evoo for dipping. It was all washed down with Lavazza Gold, which has recently taken preference over my usual Illy.

Once the responsibilty of breakfast had been handed over to my digestive system, I was able to dedicate the usual one hour of my morning to the Duolingo app and attempt to intensify my as yet tentative grip on the Russian language. Next, as usual, it was online to do the Guardian Quick Crossword, a habit I had started old-style back in 1973, when I moved from Ripley to the sixth form at the newly designated Morecambe High School.

From the moment I had woken up, I knew this was a Friday and that I had just the one appointment. Unusually for a Friday, it was a hash day and at 1700, I needed to be at my designated spot on Asda's carpark. In the meantime, I filled my day with trivialities as my expectation and excitment rose to a crescendo.

A slight adjustment for our RDV made by LP and a challenging set of temporary traffic control measures along our route couldn't prevent our ETA from achieving perfection. I joined a crew of equally expectant hashers outside the Plough Inn at Galgate. Our brief was certainly that from a rather anxious STT, who clearly had his eye on the fact that last orders for food at the pub would be accepted no later than 1900.

The run survived what seemed to be an ever increasing threat of a downpour and can be filed in the "sucessful evening jaunt" cabinet. It benefitted from multiple fish hooks, one of which involved the hare holding the appropriate sign out of his car window on a sheet of A4, attached to a clipboard. I was amused. I thought of my Mum once again, confronted with more than adequate piles of flour along the way. She was from Cardiff and I thought there might be sufficient flour in some spots to make a welsh cake.

I was in excellent company to enjoy my beer and food and look forward to seeing you all again next year.

On on, NMC