‘Chester’s a regular shithole,’ said Mo.

‘But you’d have to allow Delamere Forest is a nice walk?’ said Tom N.

Eyebrows raised at this, Tom N not being an obvious forest walker.

‘You been lately, Tom? Nice walk?’

Tom nodded, all sombre.

‘Was out for a Christmas tree, actually,’ he said.

This brought gales of laughter. It is strange what comes over as hilarious when hangovers are general. We had the windows open to circulate what breeze there was. Billy Stroud had an earpiece in for the radio news. He winced:

‘They’re saying it’ll hit 36.5,’ he said. ‘Celsius.’

We sighed. We sipped. We made Wales quick enough and we raised our Marston’s to it. Better this than to be stuck in a garden listening to a missus. We meet as much as five nights of the week, more often six. There are those who’d call us a bunch of sots but we don’t see ourselves like that. We see ourselves as hobbyists. The train pulled into Flint and Tom N went on the platform to fetch in some beef ’n’ gravies from the Pie-O-Matic.

‘Just the thing,’ said Billy Stroud, as we sweated over our dripping punnets. ‘Cold stuff causes the body too much work, you feel worse. But a nice hot pie goes down a treat. Perverse, I know. But they’re on the curries in Bombay, aren’t they?’

‘Mumbai,’ said Everett.

The train scooted along the fried coast. We made solid headway into the Marston’s. Mo was down a testicle since the spring. We’d called in at the Royal the night of his operation. We’d stopped at the Ship and Mitre on the way – they’d a handsome bitter from Clitheroe on guest tap. We needed the fortification: when Real Ale Club boys parade down hospital wards, we tend to draw worried glances from the whitecoats. We are shaped like those chaps in the warning illustrations on cardiac charts. We gathered around Mo and breathed a nice fog of bitter over the lad and we joshed him but gently.

‘Sounding a little high-pitched, Mo?’

‘Other lad’s going to be worked overtime.’

‘Diseased bugger you’ll want in a glass jar, Mo. One for the mantelpiece.’

Love is a strong word, but. We were family to Mo when he was up the Royal having the bollock out. We passed Flint Castle and Everett Bell piped up.

‘Richard the Second,’ he said.

We raised eyebrows. We were no philistines at Ale Club, Merseyside branch. Everett nodded, pleased.

‘This is where he was backed into a corner,’ he said. ‘By Bolingbroke.’

‘Boling who?’

‘Bolingbroke, the usurper. Old Dick surrendered for a finish. At Flint Castle. Or that’s how Shakespeare had it.’

‘There’s a contrary view, Ev?’

‘Some say it was more likely Conwy but I’d be happy with the Bard’s read,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, the matter closed.

‘We’ll pass Conwy Castle in a bit, won’t we?’

I consulted my Illustrated AA.

‘We’ll not,’ I said. ‘But we may well catch a glimpse across the estuary from Llandudno Junction.’