Got a ‘phone call from Dave this morning. He’s got a cask of something red and hoppy from the local brewery. I can’t stay long, I want to get back for the rugby.
There’s a barn in one of the fields by the green lane that winds muddily from the canal, down to the railway track. On the walk there, behind Happy Mount Park and alongside the back of the golf club, I notice a small concrete shed amongst the trees that crown the hill. A possible drinking den?
I’m just finishing my painting, when Dave arrives with a load of his friends. We access the barn, and there’s the cask; it’s covered in old, wet, Fuller’s London Pride bar towels.
“We better not be drinking that shite!” says one of Dave’s mates.
We nod, and guffaw in a Northern accent.
I have a couple of pints, and chat with Dave about where we’re going next. He winks at me,
“I’ll give you a ring, Monday morning!”