I awake glad that I finished yesterday sensibly. I can’t be doing with late nights any more.
The quality of breakfast cake just about manages to offset Dolores’s disappointment at the lack of herring. I really like cheese, but it can’t really replace bacon in the morning. What Could? Once Dolores is sated on cake and I’ve finished sobbing into my boiled egg, we head back upstairs.
I’ve still got a couple of beers and, as I can’t be arsed to pack them all, I polish off a couple. It gets me nicely warmed up for the day.
Our plan is achingly simple: check out, drink cask beer in Charlie’s Bar, and take the metro to the airport.
We take our bags with us. Makes sense, as Charlie’s Bar is closer to the metro station than it is to the hotel. Not really a problem as we’re travelling pretty light. As Charlie’s opens at noon, we check out at 11:45.
It’s another lovely day as we trundle through town, our trolley bags trundling behind us. Charlie’s is on a side street. My memory not being what it was, I need to consult a map to find it.
We’re the first customers. Not really surprising as it’s only just opened.
A slight miscalculation has left us with far too many crowns. What on earth can we do with them all?
“A pint of Full Nelson and a double Lagavullin, please.”
Dolores gives me a look.
“I’m just trying to make sure we get through the money.”
“And destroy your liver.”
“But I’m on holiday.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Dolores is struggling to find something to drink. Most of the cask beers they have on are too modern for her tastes. Eventually, after a couple of tasters, she settles on a Wild Beer Wild in the Cask.
I’ve heard lots about Tiny Rebel, but never tried their beer before now. This one is pretty good. And disappears stomach-bound pretty quickly. I like it so much, I think I’ll get another.
“No more whisky.” Dolores warns me as I head for the bar.
“But I’m on holiday.”
“No more whisky.” She repeats, accompanied with a look. Best skip the whisky, then.
Our flight is at 15:30 so we can’t linger. Luckily it’s not that long a trundle to the metro.
It’s all so civilised. The metro is clean and actually ends in the terminal, not at some random location half a mile away. Security isn’t mobbed and we’re soon airside.
“You know what we could do with that spare money?”
“What Ronald? And don’t say ‘Buy whisky.’”
Damn. Dolores know me annoyingly well. Thinking on my feet, I say “Get Lexie some vodka. It only seems fair, given all the bottles of spirits we’ve brought back for Andrew.”
Hah. She can’t argue with that one. While we’re in the duty free, I have a quick look at the budget end of the akvavit range. And slip a litre bottle into my basket.
“What’s that, Ronald?” Dolores asks accusingly.
“It’s not whisky. You didn’t say anything about akvavit. And we’ve still oodles of money left. It would be a shame to waste it.”
Dolores seems too tired to argue.
We’ve still got plenty of time. And some money.
“I wouldn’t mind a beer somewhere.” I suggest.
Though, in the millions of shops in the airport, there doesn’t seem to be a suitable bar. Except . . . over there is an Irish bar. It’ll have to do I guess.
I wedge myself twixt a barstool and the bar. Dolores leaves me there and disappears off for some more shopping or something.
“A pint of Guinness, please. And a double Jamesons, no ice.” I quickly knock back the whiskey and move the glass away before Dolores returns. I don’t want her to think that I’ve been disobeying her again.
The flight is uneventful. Except for me drinking coffee again. That’s unusual.
Poor bus selection makes the journey home longer than necessary. My fault. How was I to know what a roundabout route the 300 takes?
Disclaimer: Carlsberg paid for two return flights, two nights in the Strand Hotel, a lunch, a dinner and various beers.
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