Squinting with one eye to try and focus my vision, i looked down at the small fortune of change
that had collected in my pockets in the short eight hours since I had been back in England and tried my best to pick out the five pounds needed to buy the next round of beers for Gord and I. After a short 5.5 hour red-eye flight from Montreal I had spent most of the afternoon trying to nap myself out of potential jetlag (and prepare myself for a night at the pub) while waiting for Gord and the extra four hours it would take him to catch up to me from Vancouver. By 530 Gord had finally arrived and after a brief 30 second "good to see you again" handshake we agreed that an immediate beer and a bite for a pre-trip briefing was in order.
Within a 5 minute walk of our hotel (and Gatwick airport itself if any of you ever have a layover here)
we found the quintensential British countryside freehouse, Ye Olde Six Bells Pub. Practically attached to the adjoining church (grave markers were out front where a parking lot would normally be) the Six Bells pub has the kind of character and charm youd normally only read about in travel books but never be able to find around the block back home. As the second oldest pub in all of Britain (700?? years to be exact), if the walls in this place could speak Im sure they would have many tales of hoolaganism, scandal and debauchery.
With the most awkward layout ever for a drinking/eating establishment, wooden beams that keep the structure standing dangle dangerously low and are all carefully marked to try and prevent patrons from knocking themselves out as they walk about. As the night progresses and the pints begin to flow, the "duck or grouse" warnings painted on the beams seem to fade and concussions seem an inevitable part of an evening out here. Pretty smart business model if you ask me, as the combination of intoxication and head-injury likely drives patrons to buy more beer to ease of the pain of the goosegg they suffered while
trying to make it to the bathroom and back doing their best impression of the hunchback of Notre Dame.
While Gord and I did manage to only bump our heads once or twice (yes the ceilings are so low even a dwarf like me need heed the warnings) we did comment that the cemetary next door is likely so close not only for the priest to take in his daily blood of christ but also so that drunken patrons who have literally drank themselves into a grave (or hit their heads so hard they had an anneurysm and died) didnt have far to go to their final resting place.
Off to bed as we're up early and flying to the southern-most point in Europe: Gibraltar.
