The Pub …


In my dreams . . .

Tired of driving the main highway, I turn off to the right onto a rural gravel/dirt road. Harley the cat is with me and I believe we are looking for a place for him to stretch his legs. The road dead ends into an old farm, red barn in the background, and with construction noises to mask our arrival.

After Harley exits with me, I turn to meet an older kind faced man in a red sweater. He advises me to keep hold of Harley as the school bus will be arriving shortly with the neighbor’s kids. It was then I noticed the other drive that opened onto this dirt circle/cul de sac. Dogs came running from everywhere at the sound of the rumbling yellow bus climbing the hill. I thrust Harley into Barb’s arms for protection while I scooped up the black lab puppy. Everyone soon dispersed and I was in the pub.

pubThis was a lively pub, probably associated with a bed and breakfast, and lots of food being offered. Perhaps this was a party or a celebration I had stumbled into.

Rosa, a middle aged dark haired proprietress, offered me a selection of homemade cookies on a tray. I took one that resembled a shortbread and she chastised me, “Go ahead, pack some away for later.” So I added a lavender flower cookie, a fudge centered chocolate and others I did not recognize. All were extraordinary – in scent and flavor.

I order an egg white omelette that came with a slab of cooked bacon, and cantaloupe. I barely got a few bites before the locals engaged me in conversation. I was a traveler.

When I turned back to my long neglected food, the plate had already been cleared. When I protested to Joan, Rosa pointed to the staging table and my food was there untouched. So I had a few slices of bacon, but tasted the baked salmon someone had not eaten. There was also a pork chop on some type of potatoes or grits.

I was called to join a stranger at his pub table.He had reddish hair and a weathered face. Age, hard to tell, could have been 40 or 70. ¬†We chatted a bit as he drank his ale. I finally said, “I don’t know how I’m going to get home.”

“Skype,” he said. I believed he had misunderstand my statement to mean call home. So I countered.

“Not unless it can teleport.”
“You can’t teleport?,” he asked in an incredulous voice.

“No,” I replied as I teleported home.