Ray Bradnock
gingerbread chi
The summer sun was beating down, and I decided my walk had
already taken enough out of me to warrant some liquid refreshment.
I looked at the map, and ascertained I was between villages, or indeed
hamlets. I was never sure where the cut-off point lay.
The next mark of a capital “PH” for Public House showed as being
approximately two miles away, and I remembered it appearing as “The King’s Head”
when I had looked up my route the previous evening on the complimentary wifi at
the hostel.
Imagine my surprise then, as I rounded a bend some thirty
seconds later and was met by the sight of a nearly full car park adjoining what
appeared to be a pub. I consulted the map. Nothing
was marked. My rudimentary orienteering skills, and curiosity
about whether the map was wrong, were easily out-ranked by my thirst.
I looked at the sign rising above the cars; “Bogart’s Coaching Inn” would
do for me.
Brushing my dusty boots off on the obligatory family of captive
bristle hedgehogs by the doorway, I stepped over the threshold.
The room I entered was busy, and a cursory glance from the lunchtime
clientele seemed to pass without any worrying reduction in the volume of chatter
taking place. I had passed the in-comer test, and did not appear
to be viewed as an escaped axe-murderer.
As I approached the counter, I could see no major influence that
would give the establishment a name linking it to my initial reaction to seeing
the sign from the roadside. Plenty of pastoral scenes in paintings
of woods, cows, waterfalls and wildfowl, but not a film noir photograph in
sight.
I surveyed the choice of draught taps before me, salivated, and
looked up at the landlordly figure. He smiled.
“Of all the bars, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine. What’ll it be?”
His granite features betrayed not a flicker of sarcasm, irony,
or satire.
I pondered my reply, as I mentally scratched my head trying to
confirm if I had really heard him correctly. This was
surreal. Undecided, I decided on a pint of lager. I
paid, and took it with my now discarded rucksack towards an empty table in the
corner.
As I wandered away, I caught my boot on one of the uneven
flagstones, and stumbled into a prominently displayed seven feet tall
magnificent example of taxidermy labelled “North American Grizzly, 1926”.
The landlord tutted in annoyance.
“Of all the bears, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine.”
I apologised sheepishly, and continued on past my ursine foe, to
the table. I made it without further incident and sat down.
I took a couple of slurps from the cool glass, and set about projecting
my route for the rest of the day, as well as the week ahead. The
map was in my rucksack, which I reached across the table to extract.
I realised it was wedged in the chair opposite me, and I couldn’t lift it
to get to the pocket in question. I rose from my own seat, and
rounded the table. As I carefully re-positioned the rucksack to
allow me the correct access, I changed my stance and succeeded in jolting the
pint of the old man sat at the table next to me.
“Of all the beers, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine.”
His worn light grey shirt was now a darker grey in
places. I immediately resumed my new found favourite hobby of
apologising, and offered to replace his drink at once. He nodded
grumpily, and I went back to the now unoccupied hostelry owner.
The landlord monitored my return to his immediate environment with a gaze
that would have suited a bird of prey. He had watched what chaos I
had caused since my arrival, and was not impressed.
Replacement pint in hand, I turned to my table. I
collided with a uniformed member of staff bearing a badge showing her job title
of “Pub Procurement Manager”
“Of all the buyers, in all the world, you had to walk
into mine.”
The host was now becoming a bit pissed off. His
demeanour was changing perceptibly from landlordly, to despotic lord of the
manorly.
In my defence, I managed miraculously to not spill any of the
pint during the collision, and furnished the old man with his
refreshment. Better perhaps to remain near the counter and the
landlord, to minimise any further mischief ensuing. The stools
were sparsely populated, most people preferring tables; I soon discovered
why. I chose one, and for the next twenty minutes I was forced to
listen to the man on the next stool telling me why the four known alternative
printing systems for producing colour illustrations on beermats should really be
a question subject on University Challenge. As the man left for a
toilet break, the landlord looked at me knowingly.
“Of all the bores, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine.”
The man’s trip to the toilet had set me off thinking that it
would be a smart move on my own part to visit the facilities before I left to
continue my journey. For clarity, and not wishing to hit or upset
any more people, I enquired of the landlord as to the toilets, and he pointed me
in the opposite direction to that which the beermat print guru had taken.
I obeyed, and found myself in a former cowshed, converted to a toilet
block annex. I returned to the room, and asked why I couldn’t use
the toilets inside the pub. The landlord pointed to my feet, and
then to a sign with left and right arrows that said “Boots” and “No
Boots”
“Of all the byres, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine.”
My thirst had been slaked, and after a couple of pints and a
bladder evacuation, I was ready to resume my trek. I donned my
jacket, and stepped back to swing my rucksack towards my shoulders.
As it passed upwards, one of the straps snagged on a rough piece of metal
projecting slightly from the copper-edged counter. I looked
pitifully at the landlord
“Of all the burrs, in all the world, you had to walk into
mine.”
I needed to get back to the outdoors, and with a farewell nod to
mein host, I passed through the exit portal.
For some reason my thoughts were split between what had just
happened to me in the last hour, and my remembering the fact that my pre-booked
accommodation for that night was at the “White House B&B.”
Ray Bradnock
