Shrewbury
I pulled into Shrewbury about 4:30 & decided I’d head down to High Street to bugger around since I couldn’t check into the Airbnb I booked for another couple of hours. I actually didn’t make too many wrong turns until I found a decent parking lot to leave the little beast. I’m absolutely neurotic about forgetting where I parked, so I took a bunch of pictures of landmarks around me & off I went…walking the ancient streets.
Oddly, all the stores were closing & it was just before five o’clock. Jesus. Shit. I wandered around some more, but having drove, I didn’t feel confident to have a beer & drive after. Plus, I felt like having three. I got in the car & drove to the Airbnb I had booked, which was a 15 minute ride, or an 1 & 1/4 walk. Honestly, I booked the place last minute & there were very few choices + it was pretty cheap, but holy hell….this one was a bummer. An absolute hold-in-the-wall & get this….NO LOCK ON THE DOOR!!!! Instead of finding a pub & having the three beer I craved, I thought it would be best to use this time to turn my mind inward & sweep every single rotten thought out of the corners & whip myself into a frenzy of self-hate, misery & doubt. I slept with one eye open all night, absolutely chastising myself for cheaping out on accommodations. The only reason I slept at all was that I kept thinking….no one in their right mind would traipse up all these spiral stairs to rob me…they’d be exhausted halfway up & just say to-hell-with-it.
I woke up alive at 6 o’clock & got dressed & left. Having googled “best breakfast Shrewbury”, I made my way back down to the center of town. Putting it in my head that I was going to have a good day, I set out to find Peaberry Grand Cafe & a cappuccino. I brought my iPad with me as I find writing in coffee shops is inspiring & like one of those writers full of angst, I need to have the mood just right or I get weird about everything. Writing is therapy to me. I’ve journaled since I was 12, being really diligent about it right up until my X-husband threw all my past writing out in a fit of jealous rage. That was a real shit-kicker & I didn’t journal again until just recently. I secretly aspired to be a writer as a child when I read a Hunter Thompson article written in the Playboy magazine I pilfered from underneath my parents bed. The words just danced around & I knew that what I was reading was special & I wanted to do that. No, not entice young children to read Playboy!
I had another hour to drive to my next & last housesitting gig in Wrexham Wales, but I did linger in the coffee shop. That’s the beauty of life on the road without time constricts…i can have a second cappuccino & play ID the perp to my hearts content :-)
