Lost Horizons

 

Two things have sprung into conversation today: the demise of the pub as a national institution, and the death of the tobacco shop as any-thing at all. Talking in one of the few remaining 'proper' pubs around here this afternoon, we had to agree that the days of drinking houses - public houses: the clue is in the name - are largely numbered, due to economic and demographic forces that the industry simply finds it difficult to address. The Bull Inn in Bethesda, is the only place I know left around here, where the sole reason for attendance is to drink and talk, the only distraction being the ever-present TV; but that's been a thing since well before the slow decline of the pub started. At least you can get a game of pool, darts or cards - dominoes isn't a big thing any more - if you want; and thankfully you're not constantly dodging people serving food: there ain't any.

Similarly, tobacconist's shops have dwindled in number in the years since government finally relented regarding the health issues posed by tobacco consumption, a process actually started fifty years ago, but accelerated in more recent times by the indoor smoking bans and price hikes that make cocaine seem affordable in comparison to ciggies: I mean, fifteen quid for twenty Marlboro? Get a grip. Caveat: I gave up smoking twenty years ago, for good, and I couldn't now justify even my relatively modest one pack of Marlboro Reds a day: £120/week on fags?! That alone is enough to put anyone off: over six grand a year! Still, I do miss the mystique of the true tobacconist's shop and the allure of its smells and the packaging of its almost illicit (as a youth) offerings; just as I miss the genuine thrill of finding a gem of an alehouse on my travels, something I've resigned myself to having lost forever to memory alone, à la Winston Smith in 1984. But at least I have those memories, as did the fictional Smith. BTW, pictured is The Crooked House at Himley, in The Black Country, where Jane and I had our first date over fifty years ago.