Wellesly Arms

I left the house early again this morning after a very good nights sleep. Pidge and Hatty at my heals, I was dressed in some very old, tatty and faded skinny jeans tucked into my even older Hunter wellies (owned long before Kate Moss and her ilk wore them to festivals I'll add), a couple of cashmere jumpers and scarves and my very old Barbour jacket. The Barbour was actually bought just before I went off to boarding school and still comes 6 inches down my thigh which sadly shows how little I grew once I was packed off. Ah well, it's comfortable and old and smells just as it should of walks in the rain.

I stopped in to see Tom, the master of hounds, before I headed off as I had missed him the day before. He grinned and told me not to bring Hatty and Pidge too close to the kennels or his dogs would tear them apart. Pampered Hatty and Pidge are hated by the working dogs and the hounds go mad whenever the two morons scamper past. Tom and I talked for a while and he spoke eloquently about issues facing modern packs and the countryside. There is a great feeling out here that country folk are forgotten and ignored by townies and politicians who don't understand or care for the local and traditional way of life. My heart felt heavy as I said goodbye and left. There was so little I could say to comfort him.

I walked out and on with the dogs and headed in a different direction to the one I took yesterday. Heading away from the gardens and towards what was once the home farm I crossed the fields and hedgerows noticing what had changed and what hadn't. A good hour later I came up to the village and headed towards the village shop to buy a newspaper and then to the pub. The local pub, Wellesly Arms, is a good couple of hundred years old and quite wonderful. Autumn through Spring will likely find a good fire in the grate, they allow dogs, the publicans wife, Harriet, is a wonderful cook and Paul, the publican, pours the best pints anywhere in England. He even accepts that some of us have become used to the rather nasty heathenish ways of liking our beer cold although he does refuse to do it with any of his real ales.

I knocked my wellies, now quite muddy, off on the hedgehog mud brush and stepped in. The bar was quiet enough. There were a few older gents at the bar who nodded at me in recognition and the ladies bridge club sat a table in the lounge. A russet haired man of about 35 was talking to the young blonde behind the bar. She was flirting and giggling and looked far too young to be pouring pints let alone chatting up the natives. I walked up to the bar, Hatty and Pidge obedient at my heels. She ignored me in favour of trying to chat to the young man. I waited for about half a minute until it became obvious that the man was as uninterested in the conversation as I was. I turned to look at him and noticed unusual brown-green eyes set in a proud and handsome face. His hair was such a dark burnt red that it was mostly brown but with an unusual golden tone to it and his skin was that wonderful clear English complexion that we're famed for but so few of us seem to have. No wonder the bar girl was flirting.

Still, I wasn't here to flirt so I interrupted with a,

"Sorry, but do you think I could get a pint of Arbor Mild?" The girl harrumphed at me but went off to pour. I asked her if Harriet, Paul or their son Jon was in but she snapped a terse "No." I asked when they would be back and she ignored me and dumped the drink in front of me so that the beer slopped over the sides. I pursed my lips, took my pint and retreated to a sofa near the fire.

"Aren't you going to pay for that?" the bar girl asked. I noticed that the bar had fallen silent and was watching our exchange with interest - or at least as much interest as the country ever give to anything that doesn't involve dogs, crops, horses or the weather.

"Put it on my tab," I said as I sat down and opened my newspaper.

"We only give tabs to locals," she replied petulantly.

"Quite." I said without looking up.

The girl seemed to swell with fury until one of the men at the bar said to the bargirl,

"Don't you recognise those two mongrels at her feet? Do you think her ladyship lends them out to strangers?" Oh yes, my mother, though certainly no Lady, has been called this behind her back for years.

"Mongrels, Jim?" I said turning to look at him, "is that why you've done your damnedest to buy their pups every time they whelp?"

"Rubbish. You can't shoot with them, they can't run to pack, they can't work, what use would they be to me?"

"Draft excluder?" I asked as Hatty started to snore and Pidge looked balefully up at old Jim.

"Listen here missy," Jim wagged his arthritic finger at me, "you might have conned everyone else in these parts into thinking your the bees knees for all of your flighty ways but I'll never forget you stealing my apples and bothering my chickens!"

I had the grace to blush at this. I suppose, in my youth, I had been a bit of a terror for the locals by chasing chickens, disturbing sheep, scrumping anything I could get my hands on and generally being a terrible nuisance.

At this point Jon, the publicans son, came into the room and called out to me with pleasure. He then called up the stairs to the family living quarters that I was down in the bar. I stood up and he came over to give me a hug. We are similar in age and spent a lot of time together during school holidays when I was in the country. He liked to show me off to his school friends (though nothing ever happened) and introducing me to the dubious pleasures of white lightning and illicit bonfires in the woods.

Jon's parents, Harriet and Paul, came in and came over to give me a hug and a kiss too. I could see the bar girl looking particularly mutinous and Jim muttered into his pint about chicken rustlers and sunshine shining out of my arse. They asked me how I was and whether I was staying long. We chatted and joked and caught up on old news. Jon had recently become engaged to a girl in the village over and so we spoke about her and the upcoming wedding. Before they left they asked if everything was ok. I said it was fine and did they think I could still get a tab here? They laughed and said of course and called out to Jessica, the bar girl, to make sure I got whatever I wanted. I thought for a second that I would be getting bromide in my next drink if I wasn't careful so played it down by saying that Jessica had been very helpful. We established that I would be having lunch at the pub and then they moved off to get on with the days tasks. Jon made sure to tell me he wanted to catch up later and he couldn't wait for me to meet his fiance.

I sat back down, opened my paper and got on with enjoying my day.

Comments

[shop taobao]

*Oh I hope you have a lucky day*

[Air Yeezy]

The light that I see in your eyes
Will burn there always
Lit by the love we have shared before time.

[discount coach handbags]

LJ,
I didn't discount anything. I already said upthread that the Puritans and the Quakers didn't celebrate Christmas, and that the Presbyterians didn't either for awhile. I said nothing about their size or influence.

I stand by my statement. Dr. Sci can speak for herself, but she approvingly cited a teacher who told her that "American colonists didn't celebrate the holiday." That's a broad blanket statement. And a false one. Factually so. And that's the problem with broad blanket statements, no? I really think your criticisms are misguided and misplaced.

[taobao agent]

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[news]

Accidentally opened the news today, long time no see, feel oneself is outdated, today the latest news is about clothing, see a dress a dress photos, I have good like oh, want to had decided to go shopping