periods.
Fergus lifted his glass in salute to himself, took another pull at his drink, and reflected that he had never before appreciated the warmth of the colour black. Black ale, thick with alcohol. Black beams, heavy with age. Black iron fireback, dusted with ash so that its pattern of a coat of arms showed in grey relief. Sparks rising bright against the dark from the crack and spit of the fire. A blackboard chalked with ‘Today’s Special – beef and ale pie’, a slice of which had oozed black mushrooms onto a plate in front of him. Even, or perhaps especially, the barmaid’s black skirt which stretched over her rump as she stoked the fire. His mood had swung to the state where he was deliriously happy to sit with good beef in his belly and a pint of ale in front of him. Easter anthems would not have been his first listening choice, but any live music was a bonus, even if it was interspersed with bellowed directions from a music director.
Full of bonhomie, Fergus supped and quaffed, feeling heady with freedom. There was the freedom to choose where he would sleep rather than in his allocated bed in a ward. There was the freedom to spend money, to drink ale, to spread newspapers across a table and then choose the time when he would go to bed. And tonight there would be no noises from nearby patients to disturb him, no low key lighting or the whispered routines of nursing shift changes. Fergus sipped more beer, and tried to guess the composer of the music being sung next door. His knowledge of classical music had improved a lot in the months in hospital, when he’d soothed himself with Schubert on his iPod rather than suffer the snores from the next bed. This composer eluded him, but he stretched his legs towards the fire with a sense of deep contentment.
A brick recess near his shoulder held a collection of dog-eared paperbacks and local guides. Fergus sifted through them, searching for reading material to pass the evening, and pulled out a small, card-and-paper booklet entitled History of the White Hart. ‘Saloon Bar Copy – Please Do Not Remove’ had been written on its cover in thick felt tip.
‘There has been an inn on this site since at least 1532...’ he read, ‘serving travellers on the Downs Road, which was then a more important thoroughfare...’ Standard stuff. Local families, refurbishments, a proud tradition of serving the wayfarer... Fergus stifled a yawn as he flicked through the pages, feeling the ache of the day’s exercise pull at his muscles.
‘Hart’ is Old English for ‘stag’, and the rare and beautiful white hart has been part of British folklore since time immemorial. In medieval times, the white hart was thought to be an animal that could never be captured, and like the unicorn they came to symbolise unattainable purity. In Arthurian legend, the appearance of a white hart inspired chivalric quests. Richard II, King of England from 1377 – 1399, adopted the white hart as his emblem, and the coat of arms on our inn sign is King Richard’s.
However their reputation has not always been so enchanting. In pagan times the white hart was a harbinger of doom, a sign that a fundamental law had been broken, and that a terrible judgement or even death was imminent.
Fergus’s mouth felt dry and he took a pull at his pint before breathing deeply and reading on, irritated by his own sensitivity. His euphoria had evaporated. Across the room, a middle-aged man in a battered tweed jacket and a clerical collar came into the bar and ordered half a pint. As Fergus looked up, the priest smiled in the confident way of someone well practised at being friendly with strangers. Fergus smiled briefly in response, and lowered his gaze to the booklet.
Today we know that there is a natural, if prosaic reason for white harts. A rare genetic mutation causes a condition called leucism which affects their pigmentation. We also know that they are no harder to capture than any other deer. Sadly, such is their
Fergus lifted his glass in salute to himself, took another pull at his drink, and reflected that he had never before appreciated the warmth of the colour black. Black ale, thick with alcohol. Black beams, heavy with age. Black iron fireback, dusted with ash so that its pattern of a coat of arms showed in grey relief. Sparks rising bright against the dark from the crack and spit of the fire. A blackboard chalked with ‘Today’s Special – beef and ale pie’, a slice of which had oozed black mushrooms onto a plate in front of him. Even, or perhaps especially, the barmaid’s black skirt which stretched over her rump as she stoked the fire. His mood had swung to the state where he was deliriously happy to sit with good beef in his belly and a pint of ale in front of him. Easter anthems would not have been his first listening choice, but any live music was a bonus, even if it was interspersed with bellowed directions from a music director.
Full of bonhomie, Fergus supped and quaffed, feeling heady with freedom. There was the freedom to choose where he would sleep rather than in his allocated bed in a ward. There was the freedom to spend money, to drink ale, to spread newspapers across a table and then choose the time when he would go to bed. And tonight there would be no noises from nearby patients to disturb him, no low key lighting or the whispered routines of nursing shift changes. Fergus sipped more beer, and tried to guess the composer of the music being sung next door. His knowledge of classical music had improved a lot in the months in hospital, when he’d soothed himself with Schubert on his iPod rather than suffer the snores from the next bed. This composer eluded him, but he stretched his legs towards the fire with a sense of deep contentment.
A brick recess near his shoulder held a collection of dog-eared paperbacks and local guides. Fergus sifted through them, searching for reading material to pass the evening, and pulled out a small, card-and-paper booklet entitled History of the White Hart. ‘Saloon Bar Copy – Please Do Not Remove’ had been written on its cover in thick felt tip.
‘There has been an inn on this site since at least 1532...’ he read, ‘serving travellers on the Downs Road, which was then a more important thoroughfare...’ Standard stuff. Local families, refurbishments, a proud tradition of serving the wayfarer... Fergus stifled a yawn as he flicked through the pages, feeling the ache of the day’s exercise pull at his muscles.
‘Hart’ is Old English for ‘stag’, and the rare and beautiful white hart has been part of British folklore since time immemorial. In medieval times, the white hart was thought to be an animal that could never be captured, and like the unicorn they came to symbolise unattainable purity. In Arthurian legend, the appearance of a white hart inspired chivalric quests. Richard II, King of England from 1377 – 1399, adopted the white hart as his emblem, and the coat of arms on our inn sign is King Richard’s.
However their reputation has not always been so enchanting. In pagan times the white hart was a harbinger of doom, a sign that a fundamental law had been broken, and that a terrible judgement or even death was imminent.
Fergus’s mouth felt dry and he took a pull at his pint before breathing deeply and reading on, irritated by his own sensitivity. His euphoria had evaporated. Across the room, a middle-aged man in a battered tweed jacket and a clerical collar came into the bar and ordered half a pint. As Fergus looked up, the priest smiled in the confident way of someone well practised at being friendly with strangers. Fergus smiled briefly in response, and lowered his gaze to the booklet.
Today we know that there is a natural, if prosaic reason for white harts. A rare genetic mutation causes a condition called leucism which affects their pigmentation. We also know that they are no harder to capture than any other deer. Sadly, such is their
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