Britannia Rules!


Britannia is the name given by antiquitous Roman overlords to the lower end of the scepter'd isle we know as Great Britain, viz: England. It soon enough became the name of the foxy, fearsome female who symbolizes that place much as does our Lady Columbia the USA. Since their little snit fits and subsequent cat fights a couple of hundred years ago, these two gals have become right tight pals. We see them here, for example, as they lament the loss of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. She is also a good friend to Columbia's offspring, Uncle Sam, whose main runnin' chum is Britannia's boy, John Bull.


I mention these things by way of informing all interested Lorenzophiles that my new Thursday night HQ in good old Aptos, CA, is a sizey English-style pub/restaurant/music hall called The Britannia Arms. It is owned, operated, staffed, and patronized by true-born bloke folk, and is, therefore, well-imbued with all the charm inherent therein. As a colonial son whose Merrie Olde lineage predates pre-Norman - perhaps pre-Roman - days, I myself feel quite at home there. Too, it represents one-stop shopping, sustenance-wise, for in addition to nigh every kind of liquor and brew (excluding ye bogus stuff) you might name, the Britannia Arms serves up really good chow. That nifty provision means minors are quite welcome.


Here to starboard we see the main entrance to the place. Due its surprising extensiveness, there are several options. Out back is an alfresco dining/B-B-Q zone. Within, the Brit is like the Energizer Bunny - just keeps going and going ... Got your dining room, got your bar room, got your stairs up to the music quarters, got your game room beyond. Got your tables, chairs, stools, your lovely faces, your satellite sportsvision, got your foosball, your pool tables, got your crap game ...  no - that's a different place. Scratch that. But most importantly to yours truly, it's got a dandy room in which to sit, sip, lip, and listen or dance to the music. Yea, to play it.


Below, beaming brightly before the door leading to that music room, is the duly proud Andy Hewitt, Landlord o' the Manor. Though a looong way from home, note that he does not have the look of a looong lost soul. Rather, he appears to be a fella who negotiates this mini-maze quite well. No surprise, I 'spose, for who better than Andy to know the in and outs of his own establishment?


Hahahaha ... ah ... sorry. Sorta.


Well, nobody, of course, excepting maybe his co-Landlord and Johannes Factotum ramrod, Master Roger Cunnington. I have yet to snap a proper photo of Roger, but the ersatz stout-hearted English fellow here presents a reasonable facsimile. That is to say, while largely bereft of an equivalent handsomeness, yet is he fully possessed of an appropriate admirant. 


So: the Britannia Arms is happening. Do consider yourself invited. If you should wonder what C&W tunes have in common with England, just consider the source of, say, the Carter Family's material. I am there each and any Thursday with my crew and a goodly number of ongoing surprises in the form of old friends, young friends, and even brand new friends who drop by to play a few for the enjoyment of us all. We are looking to meet a sizable throng of visitors to our new room this summer. That means you, so saddle up. All the requisite info will be found at the other end of the link up topside, the one that looks a lot like this: The Britannia Arms


Britannia - what a woman. Rowrr. Neither stuffy, nor one to trifle with. I simply must offer up one more image ...






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