One Day Left
On the occasion of spending my last evening away for the year, I went out for a meal at the pub next door to the hotel. The following is more-or-less a direct transcription of the rubbish I scribbled into my paper journal while sitting on my own at a little round table in the corner of the bar.
A meal out at the pub tonight! I guess you could call this “spoiling myself”, but given my meagre existence during my stay here so far, you might consider this “redressing the balance”.(after writing the opening paragraph my food arrivedI couldn't quite work out how they managed to cook it so quickly, and make mention of it laterso imagine a ten minute gap while I feed my face)It's deadly quiet in the pub. I can hear a fire crackling in the corner, and there is a faint smell of wood smoke. The bar is lashed with pine tree boughs, filled with fur cones, and the entire place is bathed in warm light. It's almost a pub from my childhoodwarm, homely, filled with memories of nursing a glass of Coke while my parents laughed with friends.
A couple just walked inapparently the pub is their regular hauntthey knew the staff by first names.
My food appeared remarkable quickly. I'm still trying to figure out how on earth they managed to cook it so fastbecause everything was cooked properly. Granted, it wasn't exactly fine diningSteak and Merlot pie with chips and vegetablesbut it was pretty damn good to have a hot meal at last. You can't beat a good steak pie.
The girls that used to work in the bar here have gonereplaced by an older woman (the landlady perhaps?), and a pretty young thing that appears to know what she's doingnot always the case in my experience. The landlady looks incredibly sternyou would never cross herbut miraculously when you engage her in conversation she is sweetness and light. Go figure. Perhaps my character judging skills shouldn't be trusted.
Ok. So the bar staff have just changed. Two attractive girls just took over. I wonder if pubs do this on purposeputting attractive staff on during peak times? I arrived early for dinner (one of the advantages of staying fifty yards from the pub)the locals are only just arriving now, half an hour after me.
While up hereI'm a couple of hundred miles north of homeI've noticed far more people smoking. You very rarely see anybody at all smoking at homeindeed, I can't think of anybody I know that smokes. Up here it seems to be the rule, rather than the exception. It's very odd. I wonder why ?I've got bits of meat stuck in my teeth. You needed to know that, didn't you.
The pub is slowly filling with people. There are two tradesman sitting to the left of me at a table, talking about radiators. They have been talking about radiators for the last ten minutes non-stop. Figure that one out. They actually sound interested in the conversation tooThe ceiling of the pub is covered in hand cut wooden beams, many of them with slots cut into them. I'm guessing either they beams are very good fakes, or the pub is very, very old. I'm going to guess at very oldmaybe a couple of hundred years or more. It reminds me of my Nan's house. My aunt now owns it, in deepest, darkest Oxfordshire (the “shire” that Tolkein wrote about). I think her house is about 400 years old.
The two men are talking about go-karts now, and a woman wearing leggings that leave very little to the imagination just walked to the bar. That shut them up. She's buying a packet of dry roasted peanuts, and leaning over the bar to seeI think their eyes are going to pop out.
Hehthere is a glass bell jar on a shelf behind the bar, filled with packets of “Nobby's Nuts”. I hope Nobby is okOk. Case solved about the bar staff. An even prettier girl just started her shift, and is pouring drinks, laughing, and seemingly doing ten things at once. Pubs do hire these people on purpose.