So yesterday, I went into downtown Bath. Of course it's never referred to as "downtown" - that's an Americanism (one which I like) - it's Bath's city centre.

In years gone by, I'd have walked there, but not nowadays. I'm not going to blame that one my living in the US, I'm going to admit, fairly and squarely, that I just couldn't be arsed walking. This is understandable when you consider the walk home (all up steep Bathonian hills).

I parked in Henritetta St, and walked to the Pulteney Bridge and round by the weir passing by many buildings of great Georgian architectural splendor. I took pictures as I went, feeling like a real tourist in my own home town. The sun was out, but low in the sky, and so whilst the pics were OK, they weren't great.

I'm here for probably another two weeks, so I'll hold off on publishing these pictures, and re-shoot them on a sunnier day.

On Pulteney Bridge, however, I met a typical Bath resident

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A typical Bathonian

I then preceded to with all due haste to the infamous Café Retro, scene of years of Saturday lunchtime caffeine abuse by myself and my henchmen.

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Café Retro.

Once ensconced there, I reacquainted myself with their frighteningly strong coffee:

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Coffee and a good book

...and partook of a traditional English Breakfast (don't click on that if you're one of these whiny vegetarians, who can't stop themselves from commenting on any dish with meat in it. By all means be a vegetarian, just quit whining about other people's non-vegetarian meals).

Retro was it's usual self, with cool music (Van Morrison and Sneaker Pimps were two albums I heard being played), cool people (heck I was there, wasn't I?), and cool staff. As I said to the owner, who I met afterwards in the street, "The service was so good, I thought I'd walked into the wrong place."

I should explain that his penchant for cute young ladies, meant that over the years, the staff were sometimes easy on the eye, but not so easy on the stomach if you were hungry, as he tended to go for looks over ability when recruiting waitresses. There are exceptions to this, however, but I'm not going to name names.

The English winter, although mild this year, has necessitated my wearing one of my more heavy-duty black turtleneck sweaters, and the warmer, heavier black leather jacket is in constant use. It might not be Wash Park, but the uniform is on all the same. Actually, if you knew Bath, you'd know that uniform was fitting right in.

I then spent the rest of the day wandering around Bath city centre, revisiting favourite shops, and discovering the infestation of mobile phone shops was far deeper than I could possibly have imagined. It boggles the mind, really it does. I mean, people only buy new mobiles every few years, and as, these days, British citizens are handed a mobile phone as they leave the womb, you wonder just who's left to buy them.

If you live in Colorado, Bath is about the size of Boulder. It has a lot more going on than Boulder, but shares that slightly smug air of bohemian superiority that Boulder has.

In the evening, I went over to my friend Tim's place, and after playing the United States of Whatever CD, we sauntered over to...

The Porterbutt
The 'butt was my 'local' from 1992-1999 and still is whenever I'm in Bath.

Tim and I have had many adventures over the years, and a lot of them involved the Porterbutt.

The pub is run by a married couple, two ex-hippies, who have no concept of time. Or rather, have the concept of time, but don't care for it.

Under current British licensing laws, pubs are supposed to call "last orders" at about 10.50pm, and then call "Time" at 11.00pm. This means that they're not supposed to sell alcohol past 11pm. Patrons then have about 15-20 minutes to drink up and leave. It's an oppressive concept, that horrifies most American drinkers I've met.

The Porterbutt, however, has a slightly different approach. They call "Last orders" at the requisite time. The regulars get their orders in, and slowly drink, until any visitors have gone, at which point, the wooden shutters on the windows are closed, and those remaining, quietly continue our evening.

In the past 10 years of going there, I've neverbeen asked to leave, no matter how late I've stayed. It's brilliant. It's how pubs should be.

The clientele are a good mix. Old men with their dogs, punks, blue-collar workers, and then Tim and I.

The landlord and landlady, Helen and Andy, were keen to catch up on what I've been up to in the year since I was last there. The jukebox - an old vinyl 45's one was as well stocked with classic pop, rock, and punk music as ever, and blared out across the pub. This helped drown out the traditional Irish music session, going on in the saloon (every Friday night. And you thought it was the English oppressing the Irish? Ha! Go to the Porterbutt - it's the other way round!).