sea2

A few years back, five of us went to Cornwall. We were five people with disparate interests but just so you know what kind of people I surround myself with, I will tell you that the included the world's most heavily tattooed bird-watcher and, and this is key for the purpose of this story, an industrial archaeologist. The reason that this is key is because Cornwall used to be the site of several tin mines and one of them, at Pendeen, can be visited and if you're interested you can be taken on an underground tour of the mine. Of course, to an industrial archaeologist this is about as exciting as life can possibly get, so we set off for Pendeen arriving at about 11 in the morning. Now, personally I have no interest in mines, tin or otherwise, and cannot think of anything I would less rather do than spend time underground, figuring that I'll be spending plenty long enough there sooner or later without being given a choice. So, I went to the pithead with the four intrepid explorers and we asked the guide how long the tour would take. "About an hour," said the old guy whose job it was to show people round the disused workings. "We passed a pub just down that road," I declared, "and that is where you will find me in one hour's time." This met with everyone's satisfaction and we went our separate ways. I check my watch and estimate that if I shape up I can have probably five pints in the hour allotted and set to work with the zeal of a man on a mission. However, what I didn't know was that deep underground the tour guide, warming to his task, had realised he was dealing with an industrial archaeologist. And so they were getting a tour like none other, or to be more precise, a tour like three others. Yes, dear readers, they were three hours in that dank and dingy hole and thus I was three hours in my comfortable and pleasant hole. Now in my place there were only one or two locals who seemed rather horrified by my speed drinking. This horror gradually developed as I checked out the jukebox and found several cracking singalong hits on there. So, as is my custom, I started firing money into the jukebox and exhorting the timid locals to join me in a song and dance. This continued until 2.30 when the landlady advised that the pub closed at said time. "but, mine hostess, that is not possible for I, a lonely traveller, have nowhere else to go and I must wait for my friends. And, what's more, are you not enjoting this unexpected midweek festivity?" So, the pub was kept open for me, to the delight of the locals who were by now in the swing of things. Eventually the miners emerged, dirty but wiser. They entered the pub and were met with these unforgettable words from the landlady: "Please take him away now, thank you."