By the Selkirk Grace of the famed Scottish bard, a troublesome Borders’ clansman dubbed Cressroads’ Jock McBlogsbody for the duration of Burns’ Day was promised a next day second-helping of haggis with whisky gravy from the kitchen of Alresford’s Tichborne Arms. A sweetener from chef Francois Dubois, if the rising 69-year-old throwback from a line of border sheep rustlers was to demand no further persuasion to ensure his continuing blogbuster of the watercress capital of the world took full account of Burns’ Night Celebrations at the hamlet’s historic real ale inn.

But, more urgently, that the Arms offer the town hack a change of hostelry, after so long-standing a regular of Cressroads’ Bell & Bull’s last four licensed couplets – Bob and Nan; Sue and SS Corky; Cockney Nick and his Bett; Lyn and her Hollywood Brian – finds himself next in line for the order of the Chelsea boot from a changed to all but too twee, dimly-lit wine bar inside by far the smallest of West Street’s two hotels. It becoming evident to Old Blogsbody that no amount of geriatric fawning to have his glass topped up by either a young Brazilian bartender or blonde Barbican barmaid in the employ of inn-comers balding Juliana and his Lady Cyn – a once upon a social time London deb come to double as her lanky son’s managing mama as amply able to satisfy their £75-a-night beds with a full-English apiece – can save his unrepentant self from being barred for allegedly swearing his outrage at the couple’s failure to post for all to read their otherwise secret and unreasonable changes to the hotel’s morning opening hours.

But, really, what the blazes?

After a deluge of Irv-to-Cyn-and-Cyn-to-Irv e-mails rekindled the touch paper to confirm the lady is not for burning and the hour past nigh for Cressroads’ scribe to pack out the leads for his pencil and want to up, up and away to his beloved Valleys of Aalana, Hunny, Jayne Babe as well as only daughter Keogh come to live and work in the land of her late Nan Nesta and wayward-ho seafaring Welsh Bampo Morris.

A great-grandfather remembered with family pride from generation to generation of Irvs for his salty tales of lassies in red heels at the quayside of every next port of entry for their whitebeard of a Welsh midshipman stepping ashore to pay one, other or all of them his visiting respects.

And then, give or take a century or so, Taido's favourite grandson leaves Cressroads behind him to want to include the Principality of Romps and Rucks in his worldwide blog.

Motoring north to Royal Berkshire where, in the wake of severe winter storms, snowploughs have cleared a thoroughfare for M4 traffic to travel west to Bristol; cross the River Severn by toll bridge into South Wales; and, once across the border, enable Old Blogsbody to speed up his door-to-door delivery of a gift of porcelain glazed by appointment of Royal Worcester to Queen Elizabeth of Alresford’s famed glass and china store.

A last remaining plate in her limited millennium edition of 250 featuring a reproduction of Terry Freemantle’s watercolour of Alresford in all of its floral summer glory. Displayed in the closing-down sale of her Stiles of Cressroads Broad Street store, then put to one side by queenly proprietor Elizabeth for the maiden bottom drawer of the ex-manager of the popular Arms at Tichborne.

Away from Tichborne, the chip off the old Irving family block is gone from pulling pints for Primmers to resourcing suited humans for a bank’s corporate office tower high-rise-by-Welsh-Assembly overlooking Cardiff Bay.

And, between times, the 28-year-old daughter of Blogsbody is to be found making home for herself and her guitar-playing friend Jack at a Graig on Pontypridd hillside cottage only 30 minutes distant by train from Wales’ vibrant capital city.

At the snow-capped gateway to the Welsh valleys, Keogh comes to sigh: “Bless him. But he tries his best. His importing to Graig my gift from Alresford’s retiring Elizabeth-of-Stiles – and, for paternal good measure, throwing in three juicy fresh rib-eye steaks bartered off Winchester’s self-styled honest butcher Glen Davies, Welsh-blooded and, who knows, but continuing to defy trade description every next market day in the old capital of England.

“My surprise goodies were safely parcelled for my father, who art ever a daughter’s nightmare, to deliver intact for me at the finish of his five-hour, 124-mile, three-coffee-break drive to Graig at the wheel of his 16-year-old blue racer.”

HIS AUTOMATIC CHOKE AS FAULTY AS MANY A FORD OF YESTERYEAR AND, COME WINTER DAYS AND COLD STARTS, YOUR DAD MUST GRASP HIS NEED TO LEARN TO LEAVE HIS ENGINE TICKING OVER FOR AS LONG AS 10 MINUTES BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO DRIVE OFF ANYWHERE.

Or so Keogh’s automotive Bighton buddy Darren Butler reply-text her from his Bighton workshop in Greater Cressroads to spell out a continuing driving challenge for Blogsbody-dot-com since 1993.

“Always right and reasonable, our Darren,” mused Keogh. “No less so when he is woken by me worrying how damned dad’s wouldn’t-you-know-it is flooded with petrol, won't start and demands a fraught daughter source the impossible.

“Except no-way-no-how,” Keeks-gone-to-Wales all but despaired.

Given her dozen failed attempts to hail an early-doors taxi that left her hoping against miraculous hope for the odds to shorten on her chances of overtaking the mounting loss of 16, 17 going on 18 minutes between Graig and her arriving at Llantrisant’s Royal Glamorgan in time to bed down on the hospital’s 07:30-hrs production line for acute day surgery.

Her father’s mobile continuing to distract his and her attention with text messages, and not least those from the Yorkshire Ripper’s ex-Rampton psychiatric nurse, hospitalised for all but a week and looking to have to weather the start of a second all but unforgiving bout of pneumonia.

“Hell, Jean! How unjust is that of your Bloke Upstairs,” exclaims Blogsbody.

Failing again to re-start the engine of his crippled Ford Escort, then returned indoors to the warmth of his daughter’s cottage to be fingered but not quickly enough as the cause of an all-pervading whiff of something seriously unpleasant.

“Oh, no!” As, between all hectic else that early Monday morning, Keogh found herself seconds too late clocking the grim consequence of her father’s heavily soiled size-nine soles tramping indoors more than anyone's fair share of what was dumped on the pitch black early morning pathway to his car by a loose hound of the hills.

“For cretins’ sake, dad. Stop. Right where you are. And, hey. Don’t you dare move one-eighth of an inch further,” Keogh barked in all but vain.