Our expedition this week is to Newport - not in Wales, but just over the border from us in Shropshire. We catch it on a bleak, grey January afternoon.
Fittingly, there are roadworks in progress which necessitate us parking-up a little outside town. We travel the remainder of the way on 'Shanks' Pony', dragged behind an increasingly muscular flat-coated retriever who, sensing bones in the offing, sets a brisk pace.
We reach the grounds of St Nicholas Church in good time for my dear wife to decamp in search of the quilting shop over the way. I'm left seated on the 'Happy to Chat Bench', an ecclesiastical naughty-step adjacent to the churchyard, with strict instructions to look after Roscoe and desist from bothering the locals.
Roscoe, of course, has different ideas. As soon as his mistress departs, credit card at the ready, he pulls me to my feet and we're off on a whistle-stop tour of the shopping emporiums of Newport. It takes but a few moments to reach the ineluctable conclusion the natives are hirsute tan-seekers with eclectic eating habits. This small but picturesque market town boasts no less than five barbers, four beauty parlours, a 'wok'n'roll' cafe, a Shakespearean inn and a well-stocked Asian store.
My dear wife emerges from the quilting shop bearing fresh supplies. She finds me surreptitiously feeding Roscoe illicit dog-treats in the vain hope I can convince her I really am in charge. She's far from convinced and I'm frog-marched back up the high street past the sadly darkened 'Merry Christmas' neon-signage. It is, perhaps, a fitting summation of our short visit.
