The Pilgrim Established 1967 |
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18/08/07 Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me-ee, Happy Birthday to me! On this very day, back in 1967, I arrived on this earth, an event that coincided with four wise men descending on my birthplace. St. John, St. Paul, St. George and St. Ringo arrived at Bangor and went all transcendental with the Maharishi, which may explain why my spiritual inclination leans slightly to the east. Fourty years later and here I am facing the moment when life traditionally begins, when you realise you're half way through the average lifespan. I can't believe I'm entering my fifth decade. It seems only yesterday I was a spotty twenty one year old without a hair on my chest. There's no denying I'm getting older. My tranformation into a silverback gorilla is gathering pace. I'm certainly more grey than I am black (except for one last stronghold) and the hair on my back is looking more ape-like with the every passing full moon. It's as if I'm caught in that intermediate stage when Dr. Jekyll is returning into Mr. Hyde. I wake up and my eyebrows have indiscriminately spurted growth and my hair is wild and random. So are my eyes but that's not age related. I'm also over the hill when it comes to physical prowess. I've noticed that my recovery rate is much slower. (It's now Saturday and I still ache terribly after playing football on a Thursday) and I've now taken to sitting on the toilet for a piss because it's easier that way. Despite my dignity fading fast I don't worry about my maturing years; in fact I welcome them. I welcome the confidence they bring me. The accumulation of experiences that make me better understand myself. I don't think I'll ever worry about getting older. Of course that's no guarantee that mid-life will go without a crisis. Anyway, to celebrate this coming of (a certain) age I wanted to visit somewhere to which I believed I had a close affinity. A place where I could say "If I were a city then I would be this one". The one that immediately came to mind was a city with a reputation, a metropolis famed for its passion for food, music, football, "the family" and amore. Even with a frustrating useless side to its character the Neapolitan trait seem closely aligned with mine. So that was that, I am Naples, personified. Over and above just thinking that it would be a fascinating place to visit I also had an insatiable urge to go on a pilgrimage to the birthplace of pizza. I adore pizza. I've even built a brick oven in my back yard so I could authentically cook wood-fired pizzas at home. So our adventure began today with a tedious seven hour journey down to London Stanstead. It was a thoroughly dark and miserable day, made even darker by the fact that I was wearing a pair of (prescription) sunglasses to drive! (I had left my normal pair of glasses at home.) |
For the birthday boy there was also a bottle of Cava waiting for us as we arrived. I did however anihalate the romantic moment when my brimming champagne flute was sent flying by my clumsy oafness. My pillow was soiled and I snapped the stem of the posh glass. Cava from a tea cup doesn't taste the same! |
On the plus side Julie couldn't fault her Tuna steak, and the desserts were very good. So we weren't too disappointed in the end. During a lull in conversation, (I eat so quickly that there is always a period when Julie is still eating and I've long finished) , and still amazed by the wine tower, I counted that it had the potential for 3,840 bottles! |
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