General Chat

Yes, I do. it was a quaint old place, comfortable seats, the food was homecooked, simple but very tasty, there was a warming open fire on cold nights and a cool breeze blowing through from the fields on summer days.

It was welcoming to families, or couples, or the solo traveller. There was a little chap who sat in the corner, with a pint and a book and if you happened to engage him in conversation he was a mine of information on everything from Italian opera, to poetry, to real ale, to history and so on. Newcomers thought him a bit odd at first, he did to be sure look a little gnome like in his knitted sweater, and his neatly clipped beard, and the book always in his hand. But if they returned, and they nearly always did, they would gradually come to welcome his sometimes spirited contributions to a debate, or just to a 'chinwag' about the weather.

All gone now. The bar has been modernised, the music drowns the conversations unless one shouts ( and that is all the new clientele do if they look up from their phones) the food is microwaved for speed, and the little man in the corner has faded away. The 'professor', as he was fondly known by those who came to know his worth, has supped his last pint.

R.I.P to you DP ( and to much more beside) x

Tarantella

Hilaire Belloc

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

Definitely a dying breed - both the 'proper' pub, and the resident local :-(

I didn't know you, DP, but RIP.