The backstreet boozer, The Volunteer Rifleman’s Arms, was packed to the gills and they seem to dislike tourists. Standing in the one open spot, somewhat near the narrow staircases up and down, I asked if there was any other seating. “There’s two seats down there. The toilets.”
“Cool, is there anything to read?” The barman smirked a bit and some shifting went on, something of a natural movement, nothing caused by our exchange. He pointed at a table of 8 people crammed just at the end of the bar (this place is tiny); “they’re going soon,” he said. “To the toilet? Not really my business, nor yours if you don’t mind me saying.” He spotted some cushion space near the window and directed me there.
I had just gotten settled when his head pops around the corner of the bar and startled me with, “alright, sir?” in the midst of a sip of my pint. “Not too bad,” I told him, “dry and warm and sitting with a pint…what’s not to like?”
Jackie called to say her appointment was finished about halfway through the pint and I picked up my things to go. “Leaving so soon, sir?”
“Yes, the woman calls so I must.”
“Yessir,” I answered quickly then drained the rest in one. This place is worth a visit.