Welsh Pub Crawl

Ken Reynolds was one of my father’s best friends from WWII, as he was his navigator, in helping keep my father alive from their various Pathfinder Squadron sorties. They kept in touch over the decades, as did my mother and Enid, Ken’s wife. Their teenage son, Peter, visited us for Expo 67. I got to visit them in Wales in 1982, but unfortunately Ken had passed away several years prior. I spent a tranquil few days with Enid in making her a splendid rock garden with a fountain and pool, all while experiencing the local beer. Would you believe they had scantily clad ladies on the cans of one particular brand? Remember, now, that it was the U.K. that introduced us to Page 3 girls. And they are topless!

Peter and I got together one evening. For a pub crawl. Peter had taken over the helm of the very successful fish and seafood processing business his father had built up. So everyone knew him, wherever we went in Swansea and Cardiff. At one point he informed me that Swansea had the highest rate of car thefts in Europe. I found this hard to fathom due to my impressions of a very law-abiding, respectfully community.

Our last stop of the night was at his good friend’s pub that was beside a very large parking lot with several businesses surrounding it. Buddy allowed us to stay quite a bit longer after closing time, along with a small group of good chaps. When it was finally time to hit the trail, buddy let us out the back door and we bobbed and weaved our way out to Peter’s car. Which was the only vehicle in this huge, very well lit up parking lot.

We, rather quickly, considering our brain synapse patterns at the time, ascertained that the car was locked with the keys in the ignition. We trounced back the pub to hammer on the back door until buddy came to our rescue with a coat hanger.

As Peter was working the wire in through the window I suddenly felt a presence behind me. I slowly turned to find a bobby smiling at me. Remember the car-theft comment earlier? It was like a scene out of a Keystone Cops, as I’m smiling back at Mr. Bobby I’m tapping Peter’s shoulder, who’s now swearing quite profusely in his inability to hook the door lock. In the next few seconds, a hundred sirens are blaring as the entire city police force surround us.

Until, “Oh, Mr. Reynolds, is it? Wot’s the problem tonight, sir?” Cripes! Next thing I witness is all the coppers helping Peter break into his own car! And with a hearty “Safe home Mr. Reynolds!” they let the drunken bastard drive the two of us home!