I am popping out to the pub for a quick beer. I do not normally go there, and a quick drink is just that, for me. I do not like hanging around the place, in the main because of the smoke, and in part the company. You mustn’t get me wrong; I don’t dislike the people there, or not respect them, far from it. They are nice enough people, but I find the enforced bonhomie a bit too much; the chatter hardly excites me, too. It is not just them; the same can be said of most I meet. I remain for a bit, trying to be polite, but I find an hour is enough.
Anyway, I think a break from the house might be a good thing. I had spent the day writing, and had accomplished quite a lot. A ten-minute walk may freshen me up, I think.
It is a cool October evening, dark by this time. It is around eight pm. A light wind is blowing from the southwest, coming across the Blorenge. It isn’t enough to get you cold, but it is enough to keep walking at a brisk pace. The street lighting is casting an orange glow over everything, and on the few people that are around at this time. As you know, most people don’t go out after they get back from work, the result of a combination, I think, of being tired, the weather, and the potential danger of some young thug. Along the fence on the Centre, a place run by the Council, the tall trees whistle in the wind, and are taking their time in shedding leaf.
I hunch myself against the chill. A car pulls out from the entrance of the centre. A woman in uniform is on her way out. It might be one of the Health Visitors, or a physiotherapist. I walk on. The outline of the Ysgyryd Fawr is clear against the autumnal sky. The stars are shining. It is a clear night, and being thus, the temperature is going to drop quite a bit over the next few hours. I had checked the thermometer in the foyer before I had left the house. It showed 10 degrees Celsius. That is fine, on a clear day, with no wind, but tonight, the wind is beginning to pick up. I think that we are in for a chilly time.
The pub is a couple of hundred metres away, the walls, the sign and the fence a pale orange in the spotlight. In the not-too-distance, a train sounds its whistle, and I can hear the rumble of the wheels on the tracks.
I get to the pub and go in. The usual crowd is there. That is a bit silly of me to say something like that, because I am anything but a regular. Let me rephrase it; on the rare occasions I pop in, the same people seem to be there. It might be a coincidence, of course. It might not. I order a pint; the landlord is a pleasant enough chap. I take a sip, and then finish about a quarter. There is plenty of chat going on here. I am trying to pretend not to notice it or them.
By the back of the pub there is a mini wood, left in its natural condition, a kind of tiny national park. I enjoy taking my drink there. I don’t mean into the place, because the landlord might not be too keen on the glassware disappearing into the forest, and the rough terrain would mean that one would spill the drink, that I’m sure about. But I go near the fencing, where there is a low wall with flowers, and here, one can rest the glass. On a summer’s evening, it can be quite an enjoyable place to be for about an hour. The autumn is a bit different, for when the sun goes down, so does the temperature; not by a bit, but by a lot, and the chill in the air soon seems to come and penetrate the body. The cool beer doesn’t help matters, either. Therefore, I take the quick approach and drink up without taking too much time. I mentioned before that I wanted a quick break. This is it.
Being out on an autumn evening in the Gwent open air with a cold beer works wonders in getting you going. It gets you going in both ways; you finish in a few minutes; you don’t hang around for hours on end once the wind creeps by. Coming back to the theme, I am by now drinking the beer and have finished about half; the temperature isn’t too cold, but it isn’t warm either. I mean, it isn’t warm for me, but being used to tropical weather, this comes as no surprise. A temperature of fifteen degrees on a clear October night might be agreeable to many; to me, anything under twenty is uncomfortable. I am enjoying the beer; and I am enjoying too, the thought that when I finish it, then I can go back home. It is then that something begins to happen. The knife in my hand cries out no...
© Richard Homer 2008
