Merry Old Englands

There's a certain charm to this place, there is.  It's a biting cold outside on the edge of Sherwood Forest.  But here in an ancient pub from Robin Hood time, Ye Old Trip To Jerusalem, there's a warmth brewing from behind the bar and rising up the skinny creaking wood steps to the only room with free tables.  Everyone's conversation sounds so proper.  So matter-of-fact.  It's Jolly.  Something of a kingdom feel, where everyone knows their place ad revels in it.  It's chipper 'round the holidays.  It's "you's" and "lovelies" forever.

Nottingham Castle is set atop a thick block of cavernous sandstone that shoots up a hundred feet.  A solid base for such a faint castle.  Nothing grandiose.  It's a small cosy castle, Nottingham.  Green grounds, numerous iron and wood doors in the cliff-face, assumed tunnels and mischievous dealings. The accent's a bit more pronounced than in London.  And the laughter's more flowing.  Like I said, jolly.  'Tis a wonderful place for a drink and a write, this old pub at the foot of Nottingham Castle, carved into the cliff.  It's a stone's throw from Lord Byron's old house.

Don't mind the window.  Or the cursed galleon (that sparks a story I wrote in childhood).