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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 there are times when from small beginnings a little white lie can take on the aspects of a historical fact, and no way can you tell people otherwise.. For example take the case of our pubs very own ghost dog.. To be honest, we are not quite certain how it all came about. It could well have been down to 'Scoop'. That's Fred, our local journalist desperate as always for something to put in his newspaper, or then again it could have been the fault of Jack, our landlord, who wanted to drum up a bit of trade. But whoever it was who first came up with the idea, over the last few months, it's certainly brought we regulars of the Travelers Rest a few free pints. I knew something was up when I rolled in early one evening to find Fred and Jack and Jerry at the end of the bar deep in conversation. This was an unusual sight in itself as Jack always took the view that all newspapers lied, and Fred'`s paper more so then most. A view not helped by Fred's assertion that he never let the facts get in the way of a good story. They were soon joined in their earnest conversation by Sad Eric, who produced a large and somewhat dogged eared local history book. which was soon the subject on intense investigation. Now this was even more amazing as Eric very rarely struck up a conversation with anybody, preferring to sip a lone pint, whilst seated in the corner with his latest book from the library from which his eyes would rarely stray. So if he had been brought in as a consultant by Fred and Jack. It could only mean one thing. Some plot was again been hatched. With happy grins all round the quartet soon spilt up, Fred to vanish out the door, Eric to return to his book, Jack to take up his position near the whisky optic to polish a mug or two, a happy look on his face, and Jerry to join the rest us at the other end of the bar. "So what was all that about then Jerry," asked Pete. "Another little hoax is it then old son," questioned Brian who was all to well aware of Jerry's reputation as the Pubs Practical Joker. "Well Gentlemen," responded Gerry pint in hand and wearing a broad grin as he gazed around at his audience, "as from this evening you will be delighted to know that the Travelers Rest has obtained another ghost," "Oh come on Gerry," cried Pete, "you'll never get away with it again. Not after last year ! " Now I should explain that last year, around about the time of our local towns arts festival, Jack in a desperate attempt to drum up a bit of trade among the towns artistic community along with Fred and Jerry had hatched up a story for the local rag, all about the supposed ghost of William Hunter. Now if you know your local history, you will know that young Bill Hunter is the towns Martyr. Even got a monument to him by Wilsons corner, he was that famous. According to Chris, our tame vicar, who knows about these things, it seems he was a bit of a medieval born again Christian back in Sixteen hundred and frozen to death. Apparently the lad, was in the habit of nipping into South Weald church to read the bible. Well each to his own I know. But this was a bad move, as at the time the Catholic church held that thou shalt not have a little read of said bible, indeed they went so far as to chain it up, and matters were not helped by a good Protestant boy, like young Bill, picking the lock as it were. So it wasn't long before our hero found himself up before the local magistrates, not once but several times. Something would have to be done about Bills reading habits was the view held by those medieval upholders of the law. It was, he got sentenced to a public burning. Now where this tale of woe gets interesting is that local legend has it, that the boy Hunter spent his last night before execution in a local pub. From Jacks point of view, if any local boozer should have the honor of being that pub, it should the Traveler's Rest. And what better for the reputation of the pub if the ghost of the soon to be barbecued William be seen and heard once a year on the anniversary of his martyrdom walking and moaning a bit in one of the bedrooms. Well all this made for a good story. As it was one of the towns slow news weeks. So it was not altogether surprising that the local rags went to town, one even giving it a page with a photo of Jack pointing towards the alleged room. Fred was happy too, with all those lovely cheques flooding in after selling it to the nationals, But the icing on the cake came a few months later, for that's when a couple of ghost books picked it up. As for the expected increase in trade. Not a lot happened, apart from a brief upturn in business for a week or so. So this years pub ghost would have to be good to top that of Mr Hunter. For a few days all was a dark secret. "Just buy the paper on Friday," was all we got out of Fred. Come the Friday morning all was explained. The pub had indeed found another ghost. A dog. According to Fred's story the ghost was that of a dog who used to live around the pub, fifty or so years ago. Owned by the then landlord this hound was a right evil beast picking fights with any hound that crossed it's path and committing mass rape on half the bitch population of the town. It was also a total canine alcoholic. The result of gallons of beer being poured into his drinking bowl by kindly regulars. So it was not surprising that being somewhat stoned out of his mind he decided to pick a fight with a lorry in the High Street. Naturally, the Lorry won, and the hound lay dead in the road. Such was the loss felt by his passing that those regulars of fifty years ago, paid to have his head stuffed and mounted over the bar, where it remains to this day. Now according to the story hatched up by the gang, because of this stuffed head. The headless ghost of the hound is seen from time wandering through the bar at closing time looking for his lost head. Indeed reported Fred's local paper, Because dogs have this sixth sense about things ghostly, no other dog will venture into the bar. Those that do however, will without any warning start to howl the place down, for only they can see the headless beast. Needless to say this went down well, Fred not only managed to flog the story to his mates in fleet street, but a few of those magazines that deal in the supernatural and psychic matters. This has had the result that every so often we receive visits from packs of ghost hunters. Plied with booze we are only to happy to fill them in with the background. And Jack is only too happy for a small fee, to allow them to festoon the place overnight with their ghost hunting equipment. There they sit all night, surrounded by boxes full of flashing lights, automatic cameras, special lights and tape recorders all ready for the big moment. Despite a few false alarms however, the headless hound of the Traveler's Rest, has so far failed to put in an appearance, but as we keep telling those ghost hunters. Maybe the ghost of William hunter has taken the ghost dog, walkies. ENDS |
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