Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Toss of the Coin.
I walked from the village pub feeling pleasantly inebriated , sated with the mix of an excellent
ploughmans lunch , three pints of a wonderful nutty ale and two hours of interesting chat with
some local oldtimers.
I'd been undecided about where to go on that summer sunday which already had that sleepy , lazy feel about it. I'd had two pubs in mind and chose "The Ram ", an old place down at the end of the village.
A fountain in a wall dispensed a strong flow of cool water into a stone horse trough which overflowed into a paved gully which ran past the front of the pub, to the delight of any child who discovered it. The gully took the water off down the road and this was what I decided to follow.
I was led down a delightfully shaded lane to an ancient stone bridge spanning a small river into which my pub rill emptied it'self. Upon the bridge , leaning forward, looking into the sparkling stream, was an old man so wrapped in thought that he seemed unaware of my approach. "Don't
do it mate" I joked , "it can't be that bad surely?" Dressed in shabby old clothes, though they looked comfortable enough, he turned with a deep sigh . " You can joke about it if you want to sir" he said in a shaky voice "but the thoughts are there in my old head just the same".
Trying to jolly the old chap out of his obvious depression , I suggested a course of action. " Why don't we toss a coin, tails you end it all now and have done with it or heads I take you up to the pub and buy you a pint and a good meal?" "Well" my new friend said, straightening up, his eyes
visibly brightening, "You toss your coin and we'll see , shall we? Seems to me I'll be happy one way or the other!" The coin in question had two heads, made years before by a clever friend of mine.
I spun the "copper" up through the dappling sunlight and lo! it came down heads up , so together
we made our way to the tavern I had so recently vacated . The old chap, who appeared to be well known to the landlord, tucked into roast beef with all the trimmings and washed it down with a pint of Hobsons, all thoughts of the "other world" apparently forgotten! When I went to the bar to pay , the landlord asked me if I'd met "old Bill" down on the bridge. " Looking over into the pool , was he?" he said. When I confirmed his suspicion , he laughed " The old devil". " Ah well"
I replied , "At least I've proved that two heads are better than one". Leaving a puzzled landlord, I made my departure , patting Old Bill on the shoulder as I went.
ploughmans lunch , three pints of a wonderful nutty ale and two hours of interesting chat with
some local oldtimers.
I'd been undecided about where to go on that summer sunday which already had that sleepy , lazy feel about it. I'd had two pubs in mind and chose "The Ram ", an old place down at the end of the village.
A fountain in a wall dispensed a strong flow of cool water into a stone horse trough which overflowed into a paved gully which ran past the front of the pub, to the delight of any child who discovered it. The gully took the water off down the road and this was what I decided to follow.
I was led down a delightfully shaded lane to an ancient stone bridge spanning a small river into which my pub rill emptied it'self. Upon the bridge , leaning forward, looking into the sparkling stream, was an old man so wrapped in thought that he seemed unaware of my approach. "Don't
do it mate" I joked , "it can't be that bad surely?" Dressed in shabby old clothes, though they looked comfortable enough, he turned with a deep sigh . " You can joke about it if you want to sir" he said in a shaky voice "but the thoughts are there in my old head just the same".
Trying to jolly the old chap out of his obvious depression , I suggested a course of action. " Why don't we toss a coin, tails you end it all now and have done with it or heads I take you up to the pub and buy you a pint and a good meal?" "Well" my new friend said, straightening up, his eyes
visibly brightening, "You toss your coin and we'll see , shall we? Seems to me I'll be happy one way or the other!" The coin in question had two heads, made years before by a clever friend of mine.
I spun the "copper" up through the dappling sunlight and lo! it came down heads up , so together
we made our way to the tavern I had so recently vacated . The old chap, who appeared to be well known to the landlord, tucked into roast beef with all the trimmings and washed it down with a pint of Hobsons, all thoughts of the "other world" apparently forgotten! When I went to the bar to pay , the landlord asked me if I'd met "old Bill" down on the bridge. " Looking over into the pool , was he?" he said. When I confirmed his suspicion , he laughed " The old devil". " Ah well"
I replied , "At least I've proved that two heads are better than one". Leaving a puzzled landlord, I made my departure , patting Old Bill on the shoulder as I went.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Nostalgia
My life increasingly resembles a game of pass the parcel or musical chairs with me wondering whether I'll reach my next birthday before the music stops!
With this state of affairs, nostalgia has become more enjoyable and I note, a more often indulged in, part of my
existence.
Today, my wife confessed that she had never tasted chestnuts, roasted, boiled or raw! This situation must be remedied as soon as possible , using English (British?) chestnuts , as these taste so much better than those huge
Spanish things that appear in the shops each Christmas.
When I was a child, (Here we go!)we would ritually collect bagfuls of chestnuts every autumn and , nursing our badly pricked fingers,would sit , waiting impatiently around the kitchen stove on which stood the large saucepan of boiling nuts. I remember being the envy of my friends because of my huge trouser pockets which could hold
incredible numbers of chestnuts. The trousers were made from a pair which had belonged to an uncle who had perished in the war and my Granny , who so cleverly altered them , kept the adult sized pockets which when full,
made it look as if I were wearing jodhpurs. (I must say how proud I am to have spelt that last word correctly
and I take this opportunity to apologise for any typing mistakes which may occur due to my attempting to use two fingers to write this.)
There now follows a list of things the memory of which cause me to adopt a dreamy expression, my eyes glazing
as an idiotic half smile causes people close to me to shift uneasily and desperately seek to change the subject.
Lumps of cold Christmas pudding pinched from my Gran's larder , making catapults with my Grandpa and paddling in crystal clear streams amidst willow and horsetails with the sun warming my soul.
Life, looking back,was so simple.
Riding my heavy old cycle several miles to be able to sit in a quiet, sunny place with my back resting against a
pine tree and smoke a Will's Wild Woodbine and eat a piece of chocolate.
Memories of my army service often make me wish I could be back there where life was indeed simple , with
' Part one orders' dictating one's daily routine and too little money dictating the pattern of off duty activities.
Cars and motorbikes I have owned are, in the right company, the subject of hours of animated talk with much
laughter at misfortunes, accidents or minor law breaking ,events which, at the time probably caused much swearing and fits of bad temper and even despair!
Nostalgia. Strange. Remembering the good things. I bet that even the old coal miner, coughing his heart out , his reward for lining the pockets of the mine owners, will recall humourous events in his village pub or proudly speak of his physical achievements.
Are we trying to justify our lives? Perhaps saying it wasn't all worry and strife? So much is good in life.
Childhood, love, courtship and marriage and watching children grow, starting their own scrapbooks of memories.
With this state of affairs, nostalgia has become more enjoyable and I note, a more often indulged in, part of my
existence.
Today, my wife confessed that she had never tasted chestnuts, roasted, boiled or raw! This situation must be remedied as soon as possible , using English (British?) chestnuts , as these taste so much better than those huge
Spanish things that appear in the shops each Christmas.
When I was a child, (Here we go!)we would ritually collect bagfuls of chestnuts every autumn and , nursing our badly pricked fingers,would sit , waiting impatiently around the kitchen stove on which stood the large saucepan of boiling nuts. I remember being the envy of my friends because of my huge trouser pockets which could hold
incredible numbers of chestnuts. The trousers were made from a pair which had belonged to an uncle who had perished in the war and my Granny , who so cleverly altered them , kept the adult sized pockets which when full,
made it look as if I were wearing jodhpurs. (I must say how proud I am to have spelt that last word correctly
and I take this opportunity to apologise for any typing mistakes which may occur due to my attempting to use two fingers to write this.)
There now follows a list of things the memory of which cause me to adopt a dreamy expression, my eyes glazing
as an idiotic half smile causes people close to me to shift uneasily and desperately seek to change the subject.
Lumps of cold Christmas pudding pinched from my Gran's larder , making catapults with my Grandpa and paddling in crystal clear streams amidst willow and horsetails with the sun warming my soul.
Life, looking back,was so simple.
Riding my heavy old cycle several miles to be able to sit in a quiet, sunny place with my back resting against a
pine tree and smoke a Will's Wild Woodbine and eat a piece of chocolate.
Memories of my army service often make me wish I could be back there where life was indeed simple , with
' Part one orders' dictating one's daily routine and too little money dictating the pattern of off duty activities.
Cars and motorbikes I have owned are, in the right company, the subject of hours of animated talk with much
laughter at misfortunes, accidents or minor law breaking ,events which, at the time probably caused much swearing and fits of bad temper and even despair!
Nostalgia. Strange. Remembering the good things. I bet that even the old coal miner, coughing his heart out , his reward for lining the pockets of the mine owners, will recall humourous events in his village pub or proudly speak of his physical achievements.
Are we trying to justify our lives? Perhaps saying it wasn't all worry and strife? So much is good in life.
Childhood, love, courtship and marriage and watching children grow, starting their own scrapbooks of memories.
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