beer , stumbled to an aging Toyota Coaster , and drove away . My travelling companion and I sat and stared , wondering if he ’ d be alright .
“ He ’ ll be fine , the next pub is 40 minutes away ,” the publican mused , admitting that he should ’ ve said no to that last beer . All three of us shrugged and gulped another beer .
Conversation of the pubs history abound . Local ales adding to the mystery and intrigue of the Pub In The Paddock .
Charley Boorman watched on as the stories inevitably turned to ghosts . The Pub In The Paddock was first licenced in 1880 , it had a past , there must be a few skeletons .
“ I ’ ve never heard of anything ,” our host admitted , but I have only been
here three months . “ Oh , one night a coke bottle flew from a shelf in the fridge , I looked at my inventory and realised I ’ d missed adding it . Weird .”
With a belly full of beer , I lay in bed certain that footsteps had been heard in the hallway , with my travelling companion in the nearby bed I knew it hadn ’ t been him .
As daylight rose , burning the mist that sat in the nearby valleys , the publicans wife , dressed in pyjamas , chased a playful calf across a paddock . The beer haze faded as I looked at the view , at my bike , and the road ahead and realised that my drunken friend from the previous day had indeed been correct , “ shit man , I am living the life ”. LW
TRAVERSE 177