Gerry Raffety. I’d lamented his passing earlier in the year. His music evoking childhood memories of living in Pembrokeshire. Could clearly picture the album covers, a cherished part of my Dad’s vinyl collection. Right down the line playing quietly in the background. It seemed an odd, if welcome, choice for a Subway sandwich bar.
It’d been a twenty six mile slog through ever heavier rain from Blanco to Wimberley. Gentle undulations helping fend off the otherwise insipid cold. The restaurant was the first I’d seen as I’d entered the small town. Drawn in by the window seat and an adjacent verandah to park my trusty steed under. And a sign advertising vacancies for ’Sandwich Artists’. Window dressing.
