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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. Now call us old softies if you will, but we loved that bird he had been a much loved fixture in the bar for a year or so. Nobody quite knew how old he was, or even if he was a he. For you can never tell with Magpies. But on the basis that the bird had never knowingly laid an egg, the regulars felt they were safe in calling him Barney. His home was a large parrot cage in the corner of the bar, from where his beady eye would roam the smoke filled bar. Attempts at getting him to talk has in the past had proved dismal, for no way was he going to repeat the anglo Saxon words continually fed to him by those among us with evil intent. No the only sounds Barney could come up with was that of a racking cough, picked up from a now departed regular. It was an effect he would use with great relish. For Barney, perched high up in his cage, would wait beady eyed for some strangers to sit around the table just below his cage. Gazing down at them he would wait his moment, then shuffling from side to side would let out with a loud racking cough. The results were always spectacular, the strangers sputtering into their drinks and looking upwards at a by now totally innocent looking magpie beak buried in a bag of crisps or nibbling away on his supply of much loved grapes hanging in the cage. How he survived the heat from the roaring fire below or the smoke in the bar was a mystery, but during his time with us, he thrived on it, hopping around his cage, seed and water thrown about with abandon when preening, or filling the bar with his more normal range of bird song. But it was not to last, for magpies like any bird have one day to answer the call of that great nest in the sky, and for Barney, the falling off the perch came one cold February night. Jack finding the deceased bird, legs in the air laying on the floor of his cage early one morning. It was news that was greeted by we regulars with sadness that Thursday evening. "Well we cant just sling the body in the dustbin," opinioned Russell on hearing the news, and sending a shudder around the bar. "Why not berry him then," said Charles. "Cant do that," replied Pete, "all those worms getting their revenge on him. No Barney deserves something better." "Well it's all down to throwing him on the fire then," said Brian laying his drink down and opening a bag of crisps. "That's Just as bad," said Pete fingers darting in the open crisp bag. "hey," cried Brian, digging Pete in the ribs, "hands off my crisps you swine." and turning to Russell went on, "Fires best you know, and anyway it would be all right if we made it a sort of Viking Funeral." "Come again," came the voice of Jack from behind the bar, "what are you buggers up to now." This just brought a smile from Russell who dragging a paperback novel from his pocket waved it before Jacks startled gaze. "it's all in here Jack, the honored hero, gets to be placed in a boat, set fire too and then pushed out to sea, all very tasteful." It was an idea that seemed to meet with the pubs general approval, and it was not long before thoughts turned towards the actual arrangements for Barneys disposal. For being located in the heart of Essex and being set high on a hill, Brentwood is a bit lacking when it comes to finding a handy bit of ocean. But as Russell pointed out, for ocean read Shenfield common pond, and for a Viking longboat read a small raft. "all we have to do," he went on, "is to assemble here late Saturday morning, a few jar's to get into the mood, have a little procession to carry him up to the common, dump him on board, drink a little toast to the old bird, light the fire and push the old fellow out into the middle," he concluded, before suggesting that afterwards everybody troop back to the pub for the wake. "what about the body in the meantime," asked Brian. "Oh that's simple," said Pete, "stuff it in Jacks fridge." A comment that had a shocked Jack shouting from the end of the bar, that as far as he was concerned the bird would stay in a cardboard box. However the great funeral plan had to be revised on the dawning of the Saturday morning, for with heavy rain lashing the pavements and a strong bitingly cold wind blowing, any ideas of a wet tramp down Ingrave road towards the common, damp cardboard box in hand were quickly forgotten, and plan B was devised. This involved the assembled gang, placing a black drape over the now empty cage, pre funeral drinks been downed before with great ceremony the cardboard box containing the mortal remains of Barney the magpie were placed on top of the by now roaring bar fire. As flames licked around the box, those present stood back, raised their collective glasses and as with one voice sung 'bye bye blackbird' in tribute to the bird as he at last had his pub style Viking Funeral. Today if you should venture along New Road, and into the Traveler's Rest, you will see one lasting reminder of the game old bird. For placed in his cage, still occupying the place of honor over in the corner of the bar is a home made, knitted large black bird. It might be just a toy, but to us, it's Barney - still holding court over his kingdom.
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