This thing called the Bermondsey Beer Mile

Every serious beer drinker planning a trip to London will eventually happen upon the Bermondsey Beer Mile. Near as I can tell, the Bermondsey Beer mile exists because there's an elevated train dividing this area of London and if you were to patch up a hole between two of the supports for the elevated railway you would be left with a reasonably decent space to make beer [and except for the very frequent screeching noises from the above passing trains, a reasonably decent place to drink beer]. 

And that's how I stumbled across the London City Runners [I was going to write "literally" here because my kids say literally a lot and I thought it would be funny, but they don't read my blog and I was afraid I might tick off an English teacher friend or two. Apologies to my engineer friends who may already be offended with my discussion of railway arches in the previous paragraph]. Most appealing about the London City Runners (at least from their website): They don't just run drunkenly around the Beer Mile; they have a clubhouse/pub that might be open to the public. I'm not quite sure.

Unfortunately, I've been injured and haven't even attempted running in months. Do I show up at their pub and not run? Do I show up and run until it hurts, then walk back? Do I risk ruining the rest of the vacation by forcing myself through their shortest course, which my Strava now tells me was 7 km? 

I gave up not trying to look like a tourist and shot hundreds of pictures during the run. Here are a few: 

Back at the pub, Irish Beef was grilling up dinner. Apparently not a regular occurrence...something the Irish government does the same way the State of Wisconsin runs commercials to promote their cheese. I had to sign a waiver as they were filming...

I had at least one too many pints because these Irish guys were buying rounds and then I had to buy a round.

This is a Camden Pale Ale. The aforementioned Irish guys were trying to convince me to steal it, but I felt bad taking it from what I assume is a non-profit venture.

The long road home

I was going to meet friends at the Hawke's Bay Farmers' Market and then more friends in Auckland, but by Sunday morning, there is no denying that I have finally caught a southern hemisphere cold. I am hopelessly sick. I cancel all plans and load the rented tank with my bike and luggage.

I am struggling to stay awake on the windy drive to Taupo and elect to take a nap in the Huka Falls parking lot.

I stop again somewhere past Hamilton, where two horses are walking through town. I'm hours early for my flight. It's so much easier to sleep while driving than when stopped.

I had wanted to visit the Auckland Costco, but it's not particularly close to the airport, so I drive to the Sylvia Park Mall. It's probably not that big compared to a Mainland mall, but it's loud and crowded and I am overwhelmed. I have dinner at an In-N-Out knock off, which isn't at all terrible.

I have my own row on the next two flights, which makes trying to act not sick a little easier.

Day off in Hawke's Bay

I meet my oldest Kiwi friends, Norm and Vee (actually oldest Kiwi friend, Norm is American, but both are the first people we met on our first trip to New Zealand) in Havelock North for coffee. I again forget to take any pictures. I head over to Arataki Honey because everyone at home wants New Zealand honey. I again forget to take any pictures.

Havelock is buzzing. This must be a cruise ship excursion destination. Americans everywhere. I walk around looking for what used to be Jackson's Bakery. Vee, an accomplished chef, has warned me Jackson's was never very good. The tops are too flaky. I order a pie (and a cronut. Quit judging me, I was coerced.) and remember the coffee at Bay Espresso next door is better. The pie would have been great if I had not already been to the Queenstown Bakery. It is still good, though I now can't stop thinking about the too flaky top. I people watch. Hawke's Bay cafes are not Paris, but it's still a nice place to sit.

I continue my search for a cycling jersey and find this one in an XXXL.

I meet old work friends for a pint at Hasting's best brewery, which is far more upscale than I remember.

I take a walk around Napier and contemplate whether or not I deserve another flat white, or perhaps ice cream.