Another Arthur

Pharmacy and Wine Garden
For the cure

 

“A real bargain…”

“Exceptional value!”

“I don’t want to go back to England.”

“I want to buy a house in North Kerry.”

( Arthur Mayne Pharmacy and Wine Garden, Pembroke St. Cork. 2.45 p.m.)

Situated in an old pharmacy, much of the original display in Arthur Mayne Pharmacy & Wine Garden is still intact. Everything else, everything new, is actually styled to lend to that feel of the original. There has been a bit of money put into the affair and it really lends to the heritage pub feel, ideally from the glass counter at the front, itself sporting cakes as well as Simple cleansing lotion! Beside the counter there is a tall glass cabinet complete with bell jars and ostentatious servings of Lin. Camph. Ammon. (!) from the Cork  Chemical & Drug Ltd. Nothing new there!

Opposite the serving counter in the next section wines are displayed from cooling cabinets, above which an impressive selection are lying horizontal (I later discovered that one can serve oneself from these same ‘machines’). Following on from that, and deeper into the interior there is the more pokey, pub-like quarter, more expected, and this leads onto the back and a door to the smoking area which it shares with the Crane Lane, a revamped and certainly more modern feeling pub.

The fact that this is a wine bar means that this is not your commoner gardener environment. People here make Apple Mac jokes – whatever they are!

Food-wise, there are fancy sandwiches, with feta cheese and basil oil drizzled. Soup is also on offer along with the sweets – scones and croissant, However, this is not ‘cukraszda’ country. And I’m not just referring to Mayne’s, or Cork here. Compared to a confectioner’s shop in downtown Budapest things lie a little more sparse on the ground in Ireland as a whole. Be warned.

The atmosphere in the chemist’s is reminiscient of a pub regardless of its pretensions – i.e. wine – and where the decor is old fashioned, quaint, this will be no better, or worse, a few drinks in. The only distinction is that if you step in for a Beamish you’ll be left squeamish! If you choose the wine, you’ll be fine!! So drink up and become European for a while.

Of course, wine and Cork are not, as may first appear, the oddest of bedfellows as indeed there is a history of import and re-export within the region dating back to the middle ages. It is, however, not the first word that rolls off the average Corkonian’s tongue when asked to name their drink of choice but with people trending away from pub-only tippling to the occasional night in with a bottle, the wine (no longer just plonk) is definitely after finding its feet. Having lived in Spain and France, and now Hungary, I have over the years developed a taste for the fruit of the vine and on the occasion that I am back in Cork and looking for something a little out of the ordinary I know I know a place, Arthur Mayne Pharmacy & Wine Garden on Pembroke street, in the heart of the city.

http://blakecreedon.wordpress.com/2012/04/20/riesling-in-the-years/

http://corkheritage.ie/?page_id=855

http://www.boards.ie/vbulletin/showthread.php?t=2056423926&page=3

 

 

More than a safe haven

CrosshavenCroninsDadaTara
The sunshine of my life

 

“Naw, I wouldn’t eat those things. They only make me hungry!”

(Cronin’s Pub, Crosshaven. 5.35 p.m.)

On our way to anywhere we stumbled across this place and allowed this town and its surrounds to enter into the legend that our lives would write. Teenagers at the time and curious as to our boundaries we set cycle along the highways and bi-ways that led us out through Rochestown, Passage West and on until we finally met Crosshaven. Being from Cork City this wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory but we’d never taken it seriously before. It was sailing country and needless to say we were not sailors. Shur, we’d only just become cyclists!

Well moving out beyond the town towards Fennell’s Bay we hopped a ditch, bikes and all, and wound our way down towards the shoreline. Just above the rocks we found a patch of grass suitable to our requirements. Ten minutes later, tent pitched, we considered the possibilities, over a cigarette; this being the best of times. A weekend followed where we just moped about the rocky beach, wondered about the mystery of things –girls, and set ourselves to believing in the dream, whatever that may be. Otis Redding became a kind of theme tune, evenings whiled away down on the stones, facing skywards – were they satellites or UFOs?

On the occasion that our smokes became depleted we duly hopped the bikes and pedalled the short journey into the town to get some more. We were underage in every way back then so, not yet being drinkers, buying fags was the nearest thing to criminal that we could muster. It worked. We rarely sparked up in plain view of adults knowing that they must all know our parents.

On those visits we were left unimpressed by Crosshaven itself. It was coastal, it was boaty, and beyond the shop there were some pubs. Altogether, nothing. Not back then at least. Back then the adventure was about being away from it all. The tent, the rocks; they were our thing.

As an adult, and with more expendable income, this place has taken on a whole other perspective, though admittedly I’ve often been tempted to run through the town and up to Fennell’s Bay. I never have though. I’ve never seen that field, that place since. I’m a drinker now and I rarely let sentiment get in the way of a good pint – and these days too around these parts that includes good coffee.

Friday afternoon, teaching done for the day, I traipsed home knowing that the brother was keen to do something. Apart from being back in Cork to teach I, too, was up for a bit of craic. Life’s not all about slog after all so into the car and off we went. The original plan was to head out Gougane Barra way but time constraints (I needed to be back to Skype my loves in Budapest) kept us closer to the city.

Now the journey there these days, and directly, was nothing like that first cycle but it wasn’t about health and fitness that had us heading there this time. Funnily enough it wasn’t the first time round either!

Entering the town I always get the rush, passing the old yacht club wall. Beyond its claims to being the oldest yacht club in the world it has always represented for me the final stage, Crosshaven town just around the corner. The old shop site still stands, though closed down, where we purchased our first box of cigarettes, and moving into the square you see the extent to which change has come to this place over the last 10 – 20 years. The car park among them.

Car parked we took ourselves to heading in the direction of Camden Fort only to be shanghaied by the River’s End Cafe. Situated on the square with spectacular views to the water the notion to stop up was too much for us. A coffee before continuing up to the fort was agreed upon. After the coffees, with fruit tart and cream, we assumed we’d be fort bound, though the inkling to a pint to help us on our way was growing. What took us by surprise, however, was the food dished out before our eyes to two of the female clientele. My heart missed a beat and you may be inclined to allow that I was all a flutter on account of the ladies (pretty as they were) but in truth it was the plates of food set before them that tickled my fancy this time. A sizeable burger with baby potatoes on the one hand, something Panini-ish served with a generous salad on the other. It didn’t take much but we were hooked. Sitting there salivating we resigned ourselves to our fate and brought upon us the menu as a means to peruse. Being accosted at this point by the lady of the establishment, my camera phone clumsily in hand trying to hijack the menu’s soul, we had no choice but to commit. Which we did though to be honest I wish I had been brave enough to go for more. Writing this I still have the hankering for the burger which originally lampooned me and try as I may I think but a return to the place will suffice to cure me of what ails.

Our choices came down to a Goat’s Cross and a Funghi. The former, my brother’s choice, was a Panini filled with goat’s cheese, wild rocket, homemade basil pesto, and roasted peppers. I had a warm ciabatta filled with garlic mushrooms, crispy bacon, and Dubliner cheese. Both came well presented and indeed they were tasty treats. However, as mentioned, the burger had stimulated in me an appetite which if I had listened to my inner murmurings I would have understood as to mean…more! The baby potatoes which had me convinced earlier that the burger would have been an excessive choice now began to seem quite reasonable.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rivers-End-Cafe/187102907988492

http://www.tripadvisor.ie/Restaurant_Review-g315857-d2233202-Reviews-The_Rivers_End-Crosshaven_County_Cork.html

Virtually inconsolable I was shepherded across the road to Cronin’s pub as a means to alleviating some of my woe and let me tell you – this place can do that. Cronin’s has been standing for time immemorial, well at least since that first cycle trip down here all those years ago and from the outside nothing much has changed. The interior too spells of old, authentic. With the usual array of trappings that Irish pubs can be guilty of – old gadgets, old telephones, old everythings adorning the shelf space behind the bar – Cronin’s has atmosphere in abundance, and whereas at times I have been critical of the twee aspect prevalent in some of the County Cork bars, De Barra’s of Clonakilty comes to mind, I’m also a sucker for it. And I will remain so as long as said atmosphere can be maintained. Sometimes that is what’s lacking in the Irish pubs in Budapest. They too have all the dilly dally trinkets, pictures of Joyce and Beckett, G.A.A. jerseys etc. but they have found it difficult to capture any degree of character. Friday afternoon, 4:30 p.m. (16:30 CET!), and Cronin’s is buzzing. And the Beamish is flowing!

Perching ourselves at the bar, pints at the ready, a glance over my shoulder has me witnessing a downpour outside. Good timing, I think, as I draw the pint closer for that first protracted kiss. Hmmm, creamy. All around people are immersed in a sense of conversation which I find truly home. Everyone talks to anyone and the pub as an entity draws a breath and exhales reverberating with energy of the universe!

http://www.croninspub.com/

[Beamish : forthcoming! ]

Viva Cork

St PetersMarket
Too much to review

 

“Do you want a basket of chips, or something?”

(Bodega Bar, Corn Market Street, Cork. 1:28 p.m.)

Serving us well as it did last summer I’m back, alone, and sitting, waiting for a pint, listening to a blend of music and chatter. It is definitely more a place for the aspiring classes – accents on the verge of posh, and people’s demeanours suggesting similar. If I were to make comparisons with Budapest, The Bodega would be to the trendy pub what the Vicarstown* would be to the kocsmas. One difference I’d like to note is that in Ireland old and young blend better and in more locations, be they trendy or not; the super-pub pre-club atmosphere excepted, which is the same everywhere.

The Bodega, itself, is situated on Corn Market Street but the market itself, now face-lifted – probably from local government coffers – tells a tale that goes back hundreds of years. To Corkonians this area is the Coal Quay, pronounced Kay, or Coal Quay Market, alluding as much to a time when the river would come in as far as here. “The Venice of the North” or so some people say, referring to the many waterways which once riddled this city. They still do, mind you, but all beneath asphalt and concrete.

Set in an old stone building, the high ceilings and fine decoration of The Bodega’s interior may be off-putting but with a fine selection of food as well as drink one must remember that this is not just a pub – it’s a fine food establishment. With barbeques on weekends and a full smoking area this is definitely one of the gems. The walls abound with local artistic talent and though it may be above the pockets of the artistic equivalents in Budapest it is the class in which both countries’ artistic elite flourishes. The patrons come aplenty, but abegging, in the gutter!  I’ve sometimes accused Budapest and Hungary of artistic snobbery, but nevertheless it seems somewhat more affordable than hereabouts. Folk – now that’s a different story.

Sitting here, 1p.m. –ish, there is a healthy lunchtime crowd with 50% of the floor’s tables full. For a place with a reputation to higher prices this is quite good, and with the turnover lunchtime a steady flow this is no money losing enterprise. You’d hope!

Evenings and weekends do find this place brimming with revellers because it’s then that it forsakes its eatery for full-on pub/club potential. But again this is evening-till-late so come in afternoon time and you can have the best of both worlds. In the back there is a restaurant area which allows one to recline in the intimacy of an evening romantic meal, if that’s one’s wish.

On the whole a spacious environment full of the clatter and bang of a busy establishment. If I were to imagine a comparison I would say the coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest turn of the 20th century, but with the savoury and beer that gives it its Irish twist.

Lunch menu:

Potato and Leek soup 4.90 euro;

Beef and Mi Daza** stew 10.90euro;

Pan-fried sea bass, crushed baby potatoes, dill and butter 13.50 euro

[Beamish  4.10 euro]

http://www.bodegacork.ie/

*http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=733

**http://thecorknews.ie/articles/its-mi-daza-rave-reviews-bennys-stout-stew-6359

See link below for more on the meaning of ‘Mi Daza’ and other Irish slang words

http://grammar.yourdictionary.com/word-lists/funny-irish-words-and-phrases.html

The Holy Ground

A heritage pub
Just the one at one

 

“Two pints when you get the chance bud!”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

(The Vicarstown, North Main Street, Cork. 12:43 p.m.)

 

Stepping in off what is a busy vein leading down from the Northside of the city, one is first confronted by the authenticity of this bar.

It has kept much of the old feel, with the snug to the right on entering, the door-frame semi-intact, but left open to the rest of the pub. The bar beside it still holds true to form, the hatchway still extant to supply the snug-goers. The rest of the bar runs long, over a checkered, tiled floor into the darkness way back, before re-emerging into the light that is the beer garden. Since the smoking ban these have become all the rage and, though it may seem so run-of-the-mill in continental Europe, a beer garden is a selling point in these parts. Though the ban is now 8 years old the developments in its wake have brought Ireland outdoors in a way that the weather had never before permitted. On this Ireland hasn’t changed, grey skies and rain still running rife, but like the Dutch and their Dams the Irish and their awnings have overcome the force that is nature.

Just after midday on a Thursday there are a few customers pondering the mysteries while the sound of country and pop fills the aural atmosphere.

It’s my first pint home, a Beamish, and I’m not disappointed. So if in these parts, with a moment to spare, drop in here and relish the atmosphere that no bar, Irish bar that is, abroad could ever match. Its authenticity is that it IS real!

[Beamish: 3.90 euro]

Amid thoughts

A potrait of the artist
Thinking teaching trifling

 

The crow caws – a gentle reminder;

The beginnings of a communication.

The rain falls – a stark reality;

The returning to my development.

The light glows

Amid the afternoon,

Electric, to disperse the shadows.

I’ve penned these words, to trap

This moment. But this could have been…

Any other time.

 

 

The Magic

Madness personified
Sleepy?

 

Not the first time I met her

Framed in a doorway, smiling,

New to me – yet familiar.

Not even in the grand gestures of friends

Defined by drink, bravado and fear.

Not the smiles which

Surrounded me before I knew how –

To smile, to laugh, to communicate.

The magic I incline towards

As only parents know

Is that lull

Between the resistance and the sleep,

That moment when the

Thrashing ceases, the

Mumbling sporadic, ebbs

And flows;

“Dada” “Mama”

Continues

But you have had a

Half dream

Awakened by a snort

To realise she’s nearly there:

She’s nearly, and finally,

Dropped off!

What collection

A view with some room
As dreams go by

 

What collection

on a tram going… anywhere.

There’s always beauty to absorb

And forgive me this

But I don’t rely on the soft

Murmurings of children,

Their whispering delights,

The sheer ecstasy in their laughter:

Its peel, its shrill,

Its peak, its crescendo.

I mean not this!

What collection,

Collective beauty

Striking in their multitude,

Amazing to behold.

And I do not mean

The Christmas lights,

The street stalls,

Vendors and all;

I do not imply

That the passers-by,

Each with his tale;

That’s not for me.

The cars full,

Or just one,

Going some other places.

The workmen starting, finishing,

The orange light flashing

as it darts by,

and I by it do fly.

I do not mean this either.

For this is not my beauty now.

Above, beyond the streetside buildings

The glowing castle on the hill,

It stands above its dominion grand,

A pleasure to behold.

The literature around its streets

The tourists amassing

In Its wake;

The history,

The lineage deep – but

This is not here what I mean.

The river gently rolling by

between two banks

both day and night.

It is not blue, not anymore,

for darkness and the

time have fallen.

Yet secretly

in sleepers’ dreams

it moves

between two cities

still; a waltzing,

gliding majesty:

but this still is

not the one beauty.

High Culture, low,

theatre or pub

where voices eloquent erupt

and wisdom

often hid in slur

still not the beauty to

which I refer.

All beauty, every single thing

transformed by smiles

and my thinking –

Finally it diminishes with this,

My basic urge, my flailing thrust.

I am a man quite positive

and sitting on this tram tonight

I think of all

That art has found

but my fond lust

is still around.

 

 

 

Keeping it simple

Bridge side bistro
Trip trap across the bridge

 

Híd Bistro, Margit Híd, Buda Hídfő:

Opened just over 2 years ago I’ve personally witnessed this establishment’s progress from an oasis in a sea of construction to a flourishing business.

Where it lies, at the foot of Margit’s Bridge, Buda side, sets it off from the traffic that daily passes above.

A tram stop nearby means there is always a movement of people and with a generous outdoor area it must be one of the most promising places to settle back between here and there.

A selection of pastas and pizzas are on offer with the Margherita hitting all the marks and if this is anything to go by then the pizza here is most recommendable.

Perfect pizza outside of Italy! Well you could be pushed and pushed in the right direction you could end up here in Budapest, and this is definitely one to behold. Other places offer pizza and most sin on the side of greasy when it comes to the simple Margherita. Also some more local practitioners tend to the Trappista* cheese, which boasts a history but has been lost to the taste of mass production. Here at Híd Bistro there is still Mozzarella, and this has made all the difference.

*Trappista cheese

Margherita Pizza

 

Withered flowers

It was then that he spotted them, tossed aside, suitably withered; a bunch of flowers which, probably because of the previous handler’s inability to decide which recycle bin they should go into, had just been discarded in any old haphazard fashion. The paper still wrapped them, almost as if they had been untouched, and while withered to some degree they still maintained their form, almost like fake, or preserved, flowers. Their colour even reminded him of a rich autumn, the deep colours after the scented bloom.

„Could love be like this?” he wondered.

Casting any reservations aside he leaned over to pick them up, a twinge in his back reminding him to bend his knees. He grabbed the bunch and pulled himself up with a groan, his free hand grasping the side of the blue ’glass’ bin for support.

He steadied himself, an ever so slight dizzy spell washing over him. He smiled. In the bracing air of early evening, the sun hidden behind the looming hillside stealing away with it the last warmth of this day, the cold air against his teeth,  his slightest perversion. He giggled at this. An old man passing with his dog looked on curiously before deciding a ’good evening’ wouldn’t hurt afterall. The dog sniffed close by but decided, if not a threat, neither was he very interesting. The owner called him on, the lean, muscled, brown dog complied and gracefully wandered off.

He took a moment to review the situation. What a picture he must have cut, laughing like a loon with a withered bunch of flowers to hand; a satire of some Shakespearian sonnet, perhaps.

Alive to the moment he decided to take the slow road home, for tonight he decided love was all around him, though an initial urge to sing was surpressed, at least till a better song arrived.

He pressed forward, taking the path parallel to the tramlines as counsel. Away in the distance a motorcar spluttered. Somewhere a dog barked . In fact when listening he realised a lot more of the constant murmuring which is ubiquitous in the city, even  way out here in the sleepy suburbs.

He crossed over at the tram stop to the other side of the lines deciding instead to veil himself from the luminous eyes of the roadside houses. Under the cover of the tree line, a guard of honour looming above him, he found pace of footing ,and thought; adequate to take him on in splendour. Negotiating a pavement’s edge where the kerbstone was coming loose, he was slightly startled but his balance was maintained. It did, however, return him from his reverie with a sudden jolt, enough to bring him back into the present and the realisation that he was missing a beautiful evening. The sounds returned, the dogs chorused now, and the biting  chill of air…

„What a beautiful evening.” he concluded.

The underpass behind him a beacon to another world, the noise of busy traffic trickling down from the big road further on, and up.

He let the pause end naturally and moved on towards what was without doubt his favourite street in these parts. It was thinly lit, the sharp white fluorescence  sparse, potholing the darkness. The shadows leaned in, cut finely at the peripheries, but now a slight moisture was beginning to blur those same edges. Lining the street, houses of different shapes and sizes. A country house here, an apartment block there, bauhaus, gothic, victorian, rustic. A street resplendent in styles, a street for his imagination. He took his time to walk slowly along this little delight, a place away from the often brutality of urban life.

The rumble was lessened here, perhaps by the trees, the buildings; the mystery deepened. The windows, lit up at this time of evening, told stories of homecomings, dining, drinking and TV watching. Beyond those in proximity, the patchwork of lights played too on the hills, their distance tempting further his imagination.

„This could be where my love resides,” he wondered, a warm glow of pointed happiness swept over him. In this moment he was at once sentimental, melancholic,  and full of joy.

A car horn  sprung him from his delightful trance, his having unconsciously alighted from the pavement. He stepped aside in the blaze of lights, uncertain as to whether he was genuinely angry, frightened, annoyed, or another. He left the pulsating rhythm of his heart digest before coming once again to reason. The car long gone was no longer a threat, imminent or otherwise, and so was inconsequential, unequivocally so. Smoothing any doubts, laying flat all rough edges, he stole away once more into his strolling fantasy, or at least that’s what he had intended to do. The street’s end neared, however, and this would certainly spell choice. Going left and uphill towards the main road brought him closer to reality, to the certainty, while down and across the smattering of bridge brought him coiling around into the unfamiliar, and therein lay the greater possibility. He didn’t tax his mind with probabilty; he had too long a way to go to agree to forge company with that tainted muse. Already then his mind was made up; he would march the night away in search of a fanciful dream. Suddenly the flowers in his hands came aglow…or at least they could have.

Crossing the gulley slightly enlivened by the late rains of autumn, he thought how unimpressive this place really was. His mind flitted then to the banks of the city’s great river. He saw himself falling instantly and hopelessly in love; his jokes working , she being pretty. He would, therefore, be handsome.

The thought clouded as a twinge of nostalgia lurked. He scoured the shadows of his mind, shooing away at  the cobwebs of memory, but alas it was within his heart that his torment did truly dwell. This, at least, he wished for,  because the alternative was insurmountable.

He imagined her face, this intrusive recollection, then tried to revive his river bank odyssey but this other, she imposed once more. Maybe they could be together; these two worlds; his memory and his imagination.

„Better apart!”

That’s what she’d told him, that day, evening, night…he couldn’t remember. He could barely resurrect the numbness, though he’d wanted to. Any feeling, even that, brought him closer to her.

Again he wrestled with her image, graven image. He buried her, interred her, and watched her, in horror, sprout and blossom. He rallied throwing instead her tale into his new flight of fancy. A heart rendering story it would be but only until so far as he became over-bearing – had he become overbearing? He shuddered. Her ghost still lingered… The rusty rose heads loomed, the audience in his theatre; his one man play erupting.

He was at the top of the steps before he realised it and again he was forced to clear his mind, trying as ever to find some ’now’ in the midst of the ’weres’ and ’maybes’. Behind him the stairway fell into a semi-darkness, the street light at the foot, sickly, illuminating only his imagination.

„There  there be monsters.”

Now it was the other hill’s, his hill as he imagined it, time to shine. Shrouded in trees the street lights traced a sporadic, if linear, route accompanied by the gloss of gaudy buildings and lonely dwellings. The sound of the cars, those cars far off, muffled to a soft caress on his auditory plain. Nearby a gate closing loomed larger. He imagined fear, their fear, those people who had emerged, seeing him, a stranger, looking to their eyes, a little dishevelled in his simple clothing; unshaven face, untamed  hair, and generally unattractive demeanour. He imagined more then; perhaps his own lack of worth in light of his stature and his possibly insignificant existence.

A car started, revved, lights flared, a dramatic wheel spin, perhaps a threat, or warning;  then he,  following in pretended non-chalance the red lights as they bounced to disappearing around a bend, muttered an irrelevant curse. For a rich district the streets sure were shabby; chewed up;  laughable.

He moved on seeking the higher road. He wondered on all his travels if maybe tucked away amid the apparent residential, an oasis would appear, but like all corrupted dreams he began to doubt his welcome there. One time he could venture in anywhere, unafraid, unassuming, unintimidating, therefore acceptable. Nowadays he found himself in the muddle of introspection, a horrid place at the best of times, especially when one reflects upon the failures, and with clarity sees the points of no return. Whereas before he could turn a spark into a fire, a frown into a wholehearted laugh, a tired nowhere-pub into the heart of everything, his pain had extended into bitterness and with time he offered nothing to a room other than the misery some places are designed to nurture.

A negative introspection, it drove him often times further into the realm of fantasy which as often as not risked his triggering that which he dared not speak of, not admit to, but which surprisingly till this day still featured prominently in his dreams.

He never willingly thought of her, nor in his moments of greatest defence ever blamed anyone, least of all her, but she had hurt him, he had been hurt. But worse; he had never been man enough to admit his feelings for her. He had loved her. How could he not have, and yet, St Peter-esque, he had denied this love, this festering abomination,  rather than lose face in front of the girl he was losing. Hadn’t he even picked her a yellow rather than red rose, symbolising friendship rather than love. Hadn’t he surrendered to banality in light of her feelings. He had tried not to in order to maintain control and instead metamorphisised into the most perfect, most pathetic parody of what he had dreamt he once could have been, and with her.

A dog barked, he skipped a beat and hurried on. An old woman stepped out from a gateway, startling him, and he her. She swore to Jesus, while he just laughed at his own inadequacies, and wandered  on, the vanguard in a self-proclaimed, great exploration. This time he vowed to keep his mind in check, to keep his focus. He would endeavour, he announced, to become again the man he had once been. He sniggered, a sly snigger. Hadn’t this been the basis for his previous unravelling! So he’d have to be different, to reinvent himself! He’d tried that too, he was reminded. Everything eventually had returned to the norm. He was no more now than he had ever been before. Still the same itinerant drinker, still imagining around the next corner while huddling close to the past, assuming he was projecting the image of the worldly, downtrodden man struggling against all the odds; optimistic to the core.

He began to find the roads familiar again, and with hunger setting in, his dreams of the perfect watering-hole began to disappear. The withered flowers in his hands were, afterall, just that: withered.

Waiting in the rain

 

Waiting in the rain, one bus missed, another five minutes off, darkness in full swing, the dirty yellow light no good for reading, the smoking habit knocked on the head some time ago, the bar too far away for a quick pint- shots not being his thing- Paul was forced to wait unaided. No desirable distractions.

In this biting cold there would be no parade of leggy ladies to while away the minutes. In fact, in the hollow that was this side street the only company was the occasional lumbering bus, none his, as they climbed around the corner above him and fell down onto the road below. Their engines strained, roared; their fumes filled his lungs.

Others waited too and all seemed to have that homogenous expression, perhaps a prerequisite stuck in this misery. He smiled as he wondered if every single person here was of the same opinion of each other as he was. He was no better, he knew this.

A couple arrived just then, that kind of couple. Not only are they in love but they want everybody to know it, and by tumbling about while in full embrace, bumping into those in close proximity, they were also trying to include innocent bystanders in their torrid love affair. An old man muttered a reproach,they sniggered, and continued to whisper, casting accusing glances at the reproacher. He eyed them with suspicion. Paul himself felt a pang of anger though he allowed that it could have been jealousy. He’d never been that free in love. Too cautious, much too cautious.

Another bus finally tumbled around the corner and pulled up to a halt before them, the waiters. Still minutes off deparute but nearly time, he thought. The driver would surely leave them on board to step in out of the drizzle, that persistent reminder that everything wasn’t alright. The engine suddenly died and the people dared not look around in wonder, for fear of seeing the same worry etched on the others’ faces as they could only imagine was blantantly apparent on theirs.

The driver climbed from his seat and manually opened the front door. Stepping out he closed the door again, and then, turning to Joe Public offered a conciliatory explanation. A groan rose. Paul didn’t understand what the driver had said but it was obvious. An old lady donned her reading glasses and checked the bus timetable. Another twenty minutes. Paul knew. The evening schedule had just begun. Time for that pint, he thought, and smiled. Finally sense prevailed.

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