The Black Bear, Wareham ...

For many years, whenever I saw a pub, I was tempted to go inside - I wondered what secrets, or delights, I might find - perhaps there would be a man who might tell me of his time off Cape Horn - or there might be a woman, writing  imagist poetry - I would stare, fascinated, at her long red hair -

When I was sixteen, I hid behind a newspaper to drink my pint of mild - I was as slender as a reed, artless and innocent - 

Later, I would drink Owd Rodger, in a dark bar in Winchester, stumbling out into the sunshine - there were crumpled bits of paper, scrawled over with heartfelt words, stuffed into my pockets - 

With Jay and Russell, I talked about Coleridge and Jim Morrison - Russell wore a stylish velvet jacket - I looked up at the rows of whiskeys with fervent eyes - outside The Village Home, we would climb into the Triumph Herald, seeking adventure - 

Worlds later, I only would drink pomegranate juice - but pubs retained their power to charm - in Wareham, I visit the Black Bear, a former coaching inn, with its long shadowy corridor and strange, tiny, bars - 

The panelling and ceilings of the public bar are still stained brown from the smoke of countless cigarettes, cigars and pipes - there are pale photographs of Victorian gamekeepers on the walls -

I used to come here with Tess - we'd eat massive Thai curries before we saw a film at The Rex - members of the Wareham Photographic Club would be sitting the near the bar - they had large faces and wore blazers -

In my dreams, the bear on top of the porch comes alive - he dances to the music of sad trombones -