Author Topic:  [st. hilary] warm this winter. [fergie]  (Read 357 times)

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[st. hilary] warm this winter. [fergie]
« on: December 22, 2020, 03:22:02 PM »
December, 2003

Poesy didn't know why she was nervous, she knew this village like the back of her hand. Stepping foot on the gravel, the soles of her well worn boots crunched as she let out a sigh, her breath coming out in little white puffs as she looked around. It hadn't changed a bit. There were still the winding lanes, little cottages with pastel coloured doors, the large oak tree with the broken branch, the church was still standing and the air still smelled like a coal fire. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply.

It had been snowing recently, the neat gardens covered with fresh powder, children's footprints embedded on the grass, the occasional snowman with wonky smiles. Poesy walked on, her hand in the pockets of her woolen coat, a scarf wrapped around her so only her nose was peeking out. The winters up here were always fresher. By the time she saw the snow in London, it was usually pigeon-pocked and slimy. The Christmas tree in the village square stood proudly bockety, leaning to the left under the lights and the mismatched decorations. It wasn't her home and hadn't been for a very long time.

The pub stood pride of place, thick boughs of fir neatly tacked along the door, a large and heavy wreath in the middle. Placing her hands on it, she gave it a hefty shove and almost fell through it, causing a couple of people to look in her direction curiously. The warmth of the pub rushed up to meet her. The fire was roaring, fairy lights looped around the low beams, the tree in the corner twinkling merrily.

Offering a quick smile, Poesy quickly shed her coat, draping it on the back of a chair. She didn't recognise the man behind the bar. When she'd been here last, he was called Bryn. A mountain of a man, permanently wearing a cable-knit jumper and a grin, with rosy cheeks. She lingered as she squinted at the man standing there now, polishing glasses. Bryn had a son about that age. As if on cue, the man looked up and Poesy quickly turned her back, busying herself by picking up the menu.

Maybe this was a bad idea. She could have easily taken Fergie into Cardiff or Swansea to one of those fancy "pubs" but she didn't have the heart. They were soulless and boring. This place had always been comfortable, cosy, warm. She didn't want to drink overpriced wine in a clinical setting, not when the thick walls and flagged floors of the pub were so inviting.

She'd barely had time to choose what she wanted with her roast (beef, pork, chicken or all three, apparently) when he came through the door, almost bumping his head on the low ceiling. Poesy jumped up, a hand in the air to give him a cheery wave and a grin as she stepped around the table. "Hi," she said brightly, arms out for a hug before she gasped, her hands flying to her face as she saw his companion.

Unable to do anything else, she let out a squeak of pure joy. "And who is this?" Poesy cooed at the dog by Fergie's side, thinking nothing of it as she dropped to her knees on the floor and extended a hand out for the puppy to sniff before she eagerly stroked its head. "Oh you are so precious. I love you," she told the dog, gently scratching her chin, suddenly enamoured before she realised the dog's owner might think she was a bit odd.

With a laugh, she looked up. "Hello," she greeted Fergie with a dimpled smile. "Thanks for coming," she told him genuinely as she stood to brush her hands against the thighs of her dark jeans, her hands tucking her hair behind her ears. "Merry Christmas," she said warmly as she gestured for him to sit down at their table near the fire, distracted by pretty much everything at the moment.;u=25610' rel='nofollow noopener' target='_blank'>@Fergie Flume

[The Bush Inn, St. Hilary, Vale of Glamorgan]


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