Dear subscribers and lost souls,
Apologies for the long delay in our latest post, but the Ataraxian club was abroad this past week sampling the bittersweet ciders of West Somerset at the kind bequest and hospitality of Old Tweedy in his wonderfully ramshackle farmhouse.
So what did we drink? I hear you murmur from your armchair?
Well through the haze of time and memory I shall endeavor to deliver a report on what was the highlight of the weekend, The Seymour Arms.
A public house as all other public houses should be. A disused train station converted into the ideal village local.
Spartan it may appear ascetically with it's original wallpaper and p.e lesson benches it lacks no warmth in company. You could not be surrounded by a more welcoming regulars (e.g Homer, a near indecipherable cripple who complains of his bowel problems to anyone that will listen).
Pass the billiards table the 'renovated' old ticket counter a sixty-something barmaid divides what must be to her blasphemous metric currencies into the separate draws of a battered Victorian cabinet. And change she will need at £1.60 for a pint of the house Cider (The 'medium-dry' being our choice of tipple- excellent clean taste) a price from a lost age forgotten by VAT.
In the center of the waiting room besides a roaring Edwardian fire, a table laden with local cheese brought to be shared amongst the locals, no catch, no promotion just an act of common courtesy towards fellow men. After Five pints (£8?!) it was with a heavy heart and a lack of general coordination that we stepped back over the threshold.
It almost seems a mistake to tell the wider world about it..