When visiting my brother in Yorkshire in June, we took a walk to the local shops to buy some sandwiches for lunch. (Oh, all right: cakes too!) On the way back, I quickly snapped this photo of the local pub.
My brother stopped and asked me, in some bewilderment, what I was doing.
I explained that there are no real pubs in SA. There are plenty of bars and hundreds of great restaurants, but the warm welcoming atmosphere of a British pub? No.
And my imaginations are as foul as Vulcan’s stithy.
(Where Vulcan is the blacksmith of the Gods.)
As a kid growing up in Yorkshire, I used to live right next door to not one but two pubs! They were called – wait for it – The Old Inn and The New Inn! But most pubs had wonderful, unforgettable names.
When I left home and lived in Manchester for a few years, the first thing I did was find my new “local”. Of course, it was full of, well, locals! I mean old men, mostly, having a pint or two in the evening. We young students stood out a mile. But the nice thing about a local, is that if you go there regularly, eventually you also become a local.
My housemate had designated Monday night housework night. I’d get home about 6 pm and eat something quickly, before we went to the launderette. After that we each vacuumed and cleaned our rooms. By 9 pm we were more than ready for a walk down to the local for a drink.
And true enough, after only half a year of this, we became one of the locals too!