An old English pub in a beachside town. Seems as good a purgatory as any. Ancient brick and mortar. The gloom, the dust, the dark wood.

You have to pay the toll, the bartender says. I’ve already paid, I protest. I’ve paid so many times. The bartender scoffs. Everyone says that. But he is drawing a pint. The dark amber beer makes a gurgling sound as it leaves the tap, hitting the side of the mug the bartender holds at a perfect tilt. He presents it with a flourish. The correct amount of foam on the top. We’re not amateurs in this country, the bartender says.

Amateurs. 

I sip my beer.

A man with long greying hair and a beard sits on a stool in the middle of the pub, strumming an acoustic guitar. His gravelly voice is low as he sings “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. He sings almost to himself, staring at the guitar, not looking up.

Two old men are arguing while huddled together in a booth. A dartboard hangs on the far wall. Thwack. A local hipster in a plaid jacket and knit toque misses the bullseye. His pals jeer good-naturedly.

Amateurs.

I’m thinking about that time you entered the 10k mud run. You said it would be a shit show and I said you couldn’t win. You said, watch me.

I’m thinking about all the things we argued about, whether to stay in or go out, drive to Banff or drive to Jasper. Is Pearl Jam better than Nirvana. Why would you even try to compare the two, and then we debated that. You said Moonrise Kingdom is the best Wes Anderson film and I said it’s Rushmore. I haven’t changed my mind about that. But maybe I could concede a few points about other things.

I’m thinking about that time we stopped at a small Italian town in the Northern Alps and discovered a vintage motorcycle show in the middle of that plaza. Dozens of classic bikes lined up in the old cobblestone square. Italian “show & shine.” The dude in the leather vest showing off his 1930s cream-coloured Norton, as you ran an admiring hand along the side of it. I made the organ donor joke and you said I have no sense of adventure.

But I’m the one here now in this old English pub I’ve stumbled upon after a spontaneous decision to go south instead of north. And I wish you were here with me drinking a pint, even if it were the Strongbow nonsense you always preferred.

The man with the guitar is still strumming and singing.

Hell, I guess I’m feeling sentimental.

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