The ice, cold, nectar that was the pint of cider, I enjoyed like none other before. Sitting alone in the shade of a tree in the beer garden of The Raven, I placed the pint down infont of me. I leaned forward, so my face was but touching distance from it and savoured the moment.
With my loving finger I tracked a line down through the droplets of condensation to the bottom of the glass. Then clasping it slowly in my clammy right hand, I lifted in ceremonially to my cracked and dry lips and sensually sipped.
THIS ADVERTISEMENT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO YOU BY OUR SPONSORS, SHEPHERD'S DRY SACK CIDER. THE DRINK OF CHOICE FOR ALL DISILLUSIONED, MIDDLE-AGED MEN, OVER EXERTING THEMSELVES IN THE SEARCH FOR SOME FORGOTTEN... Something or other. I forget. But, suffice to say the pint and rest were lovely. So much so in fact, that my feet protested when it was time to stand. For once my legs were unsupportive of me.
It was time for plan B. From my shoulder bag I took out my map and plotted two further pubs that were conveniently on the trail between here and home. After some negotiation with the lower half half of my body, with my torso, which had so enjoyed the cider, acting as mediator, the feet and legs finally agreed to all conditions and once again we were back on the road.
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