Page 18 - The Letter By Ann Newhouse

‘Good evening’, a pleasant grey-haired lady greeted me.
‘Good evening’, I replied shyly.
‘Is it possible to get a light meal and a coffee?’, I requested with a smile.
‘I’ll see if there is anything left from the evening meal’, she said as she instructed a rather handsome looking young man to serve me coffee and directed me to a table in a little nook by a pleasant log fire. The flames were dancing gaily making the logs crackle as if they were singing it was a wonderful sight on such a frosty night, not to mention the heat that warmed the very core of my being. The grey-haired lady, the owner, I later discover, served me a bowl of homemade chicken soup with farm house brown bread made by her own hands, I was told. She introduced me to the handsome man as her son Paul. While I enjoyed my meal, I glanced around and observed my surroundings.
The pub was no bigger than a large dining room seating maybe fifty people comfortably. There were ten tables each with four chairs, a couple of soft sofas that looked like they had seen better days and six high stools at the bar. There were many pictures of farm scenes and quaint thatched cottages. The odd jug and basket hung from dark wooden beams.
It felt very comfortable. I felt at home and contented just sitting alone. Something I have never felt like doing in Dublin or anywhere else for that matter, I realised. As I paid my bill and headed towards the door the remaining patrons bid me goodnight. Surprised, I managed to nod and smile in return. I decided to continue on my journey around the village. I really did not want to leave. There was a light fall of snow and the frost was forming on every surface. The village was like a picture post card. As I left the pub behind I came to large iron gates with a wooden sign and gold lettering proclaiming the area as the village school and recreational grounds. Broad trees lined