A night at the Royal Exchange

At the far end of town you’ll find the old Royal Exchange of Burra heights. Horse had previously called ahead and booked us a room for the night in an attempt to escape the execrable easterly.

The two double doors were held fast by a bent coach bolt and screw-driver. On discovery Horse booming in laughter as he dislodged them and made his entrance. Key in hand (from the twenty something son of the lady proprietor), we clattered our way with panniers, bags and bits up the weathered wooden stairwell, making sure to keep a safe distance from time beaten balustrade. Then meandered through dim hallways to our equally dim room.

The crack of the light socket and the single overhead bulb revealed two crusty creaking single beds and an electrical multi-plug, that flickered orange like the remnant glow of previous occupants last cigarette. The room taller than it was wide, its nearly 200 years of history peeling from its plastered walls. A true classic.

I drew the stiff curtains to lift the gloom. Above the air conditioner scrawled into the dusty glass were the words ‘Hi’ and ‘Help me!’ I burst into hysterics. “Christ, let’s get a beer” said Horse.

A night to remember

It wasn’t quite five pm when we made our way to the pubic bar. Empty, but for me, Horse and the twenty something son of the lady proprietor.

I walked to end of the corrugation and collapsed into one of the few available bar stools. Like the original memory foam of 100,000 previous posteriors, I didn’t so much as sit, but be absorbed into the stools broken vinyl and moist decaying sponge. As we melded as one, it became clear I wasn’t moving far this night. “Two pints of the black stuff please mate.” requested horse.

The regulars began making their way in, throwing cursory glances our way as they placed their orders and stayed a safe distance. Horse and I at one end, and a mob of locals squeezed in at the other. Then they heard us, our accents I mean and it was all on. Especially from one grim bearded beanie wearing bugger in the middle of the mob.

img_2803He took particular delight at ‘taking the piss’ out of Horse’s follical impairment. I removed my buff in brave support, only to receive an explosive crackle from the bearded bugger, as he tugged the top of his beanie and to our surprise, he also shared the same barber as us. The evening had now only just begun.

Damn good buggers

The bearded bugger was called Phil’. Local legend, only he wasn’t a local. Born in Clare, only a few ‘biscuit throws’ from Burra where he’d been living for the last twenty years.

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We all drank pints of the black stuff with a seasoning of salt n’ pepper, and talked absolute rubbish for half the night. The other half was spent talking to Dave the Barman and partner of the ‘Missus’ (the lady proprietor with the twenty something son). Now Dave was a special kind of Legend. He was a former Seargent serving at her Majesty’s pleasure as a British Paratrooper. More to the point, Dave had served in the Falklands war and escaped the United Kingdom shortly after for a new life in the lucky country.

The night wore on and awash with beer, I eventually prised myself from the seat, chin up to keep it all in, we both clattered back up that weathered wooden stairwell under the cover of a single naked sixty watt bulb.

The day faded fast, but not its memories.

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