Meeting Other Bloggers, Part 1: A Quiet Night In Trixieville

”So why don’t you shave then?”

To say that Heather was taken aback would be an understatement. For a rare moment she was lost for words.

We were in Trixie’s pub, in the company of Trixie herself, and that’s just how she is: Direct, straight to the point, no bullshit. I like that.

We had driven down from Wales by a circuitous route so that we could experience (at Alfie’s recommendation) the spectacular drive from Barmouth to Dolgellau and eastwards through the mountain pass towards Welshpool, under the brooding presence of Cadair Idris.

Barmouth bridge, Mountain road near Dolgellau,

Cadair Idris (the last 2 are not my photos unfortunately)

I couldn’t help a twinge of regret as the hills became less rugged and, too soon, we were in Shropshire. We made Trixieville by teatime and were welcomed into her house as if we had all known each other for years. We briefly met her two boys, before their father took them off for the weekend, and then we sat in the back garden talking about pretty much everything under the sun while supper was cooking. The conversation flowed easily: There’s no fakery or pretention with Trixie, what you see is what you get.

Later we took a stroll into town and went to her club where we met up with a few of the friends mentioned over the years in her blogs and then, as the sun started to go down over the mellow stone buildings on the main street of her attractive little town, we made our way to the pub where she works. It was quite well-filled by the time we got there and continued to fill up as the evening wore on. Thus Trixie’s question was asked at something just below a shouting pitch above the clamour of a busy pub.

As far as I recall (and my recollection of events was getting progressively hazier) I chipped in with my opinion that it was a fallacy that men won’t go down on women unless they are shaved because of all the hair getting in the way For me, it was all a queston of technique. Then we got on to the subject of men who won’t go down on women under any circumstances, and what a deal-breaker that could be. I opined that I couldn’t understand why any man would refuse. After all, what’s not to like?

Eventually we walked home, me a little unsteadily, and Trixie, with typical generosity, announced that we were to have her bedroom while she would take the sofa downstairs. I have to say it was the most comfortable night’s sleep I had had all week.

The next morning, Trixie had to be in early for work at the pub, but not before she had cooked us a traditional full English breakfast with all the trimmings, except the fat. It was delicious: She really looked after us well. Thanks mate.

She left us to it and we promised to look in at the pub for lunch before we caried on south. When we arrived there were just a handful of people in the bar, but Trixie was looking a little flustered. One of her jobs that morning had been to change a couple of barrels in the cellar. One of the taps had refused to go in properly and she had been sprayed from head to toe with beer. Although she had been offered the chance to go home and change she had decided to stay. She apologised if she smelt of beer. Under different circumstances I might have offered to lick it off; who would say no to free beer! But in any case, I always find the smell of beer on a woman a real turn-on.

The pub was filling now and Trixie was kept busy looking after her other customers. We enjoyed our lunch, for me a baguette filled with great slabs of tender roast beef, and a fine drop of ale before saying our goodbyes and getting back on the road again for our assignation with another blogger.

But I’ll save that for another time.