The child by the bar is barefoot and attempting to moonwalk on the minted mid-90’s carpet. He alternates his dance moves with quick flurries of punches, shadow boxing like Sonny Bill. The smell of stale beer and a warm fire add an interesting aura to this little bar of solitude.
A toothless smiling man is at the bar, draining pitchers of 4% Speights. “The Pride Of Southland” read the Speights poster on the wall, prominently displaying a man on a horse. Indeed it is, and these its people. Thick wool socks dangle from the edge of his bar stool, as it does with the man next to him, both dirty from an honest days work. By my count, that makes Alex and I the only ones choosing to participate in the usual social norm of “footwear”.
We eat massive burgers with fingers still frozen from the evening surf. “Most people cant do that,” exclaimed the bar tender guy, referring to our brazen attempt to hold the beast of beef with both hands, the fork and knife lay idle by our plates.He wears a teal green polo shirt, which makes his smile look super white and skin rather red.
The locals offer sincere and polite conversation, rather than awkward stares. Flannel and wool the dress code. Satisfied, we sip our beers and talk about; the wales, weather and how million a dollar American war ship manage to run into a slow oil tankers.The whole bar seems to say goodbye when we go. Politely we thank our hosts, and leave. With a crack, the kid sinks a solid. Corner pocket.