Hic Incipit Pestis
Nov. 18th, 2024 09:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootHic Incipit Pestis meaning Here begins the Plague was written in Oliver Gun's burial entry after he died of the local outbreak started on the spot of the inn back in 1564. The place had a different name then, and mostly a different construction. Its present form can be dated back to 1594 acquiring its current name, the Garrick, in 1795. The Garrick Inn is thought to be the oldest pub in Stratford-upon Avon, easily out-dating the nearby Woodsman which, though boasting timbers from Shakespeare's own house and claims to have been built in 1500, seems to have started its life as an inn in 1655.
Friday saw three of us together for November_Girl's birthday weekend, first on a reccy re the Garrick's suitability for a larger group on Saturday night, and then stuffing our faces at The Woodsman. The Woodsman's a excellent restaurant for wine and fine dining while the Garrick remains a pub albeit a posh one, and therefore possessing serious pie and ale energy. Saturday began with old mates turning up alongside our chum's daughter, forever 8 in my eyes and therefore a shock to meet as a clever and beautiful young woman. It's encounters like this that remind me how time genuinely does move and things change. Hic Incipit Pestis only strengthens my impression of time as a circle, especially when conversation turned to the havoc Covid has played with people's lives.
But serious subjects stood no chance in the bright glow of birthday. Friday was delectable, Saturday was uproarious, though the young lady knew better than to join us falling into and out of the pubs of Merrie Olde England. We left the Garrick at closing time and went to some other place that didn't shut until the wee hours. Then a beleaguered taxi driver had the job of getting us home and suffered our singing all the way. We were genuinely terrible but he didn't object because with our noise and the full moon rising he probably thought he'd picked up a pack of werewolves.
R is coughing heavily and looking grim this morning. A test reveals no Covid but I recall getting multiple false negatives until so thick with viral load the test strip looked like someone had smudged eyeliner across it. By then it was too late. Hic we go again.
I found myself wondering about that flat circle Rust Cohle mentions in True Detective season 1. I get it, except the line making the circle isn't flat like a drawn circle or one of his beer cans. The circle's made from a plastic spiral coil/old style telephone flex, and you're in it. You can go straight through the centre of the coils and zoom right round the ring, or you can go the slow way, climbing to the top of each coil and down the other side, which is laborious but you get to see more even if often the view from the top of one coil is very like the view from its neighbour. In certain places where the coils separate you can fall out of the ring, landing either inside or outside. There now, perfect sense, leaving only one question:
Am I still drunk?
Friday saw three of us together for November_Girl's birthday weekend, first on a reccy re the Garrick's suitability for a larger group on Saturday night, and then stuffing our faces at The Woodsman. The Woodsman's a excellent restaurant for wine and fine dining while the Garrick remains a pub albeit a posh one, and therefore possessing serious pie and ale energy. Saturday began with old mates turning up alongside our chum's daughter, forever 8 in my eyes and therefore a shock to meet as a clever and beautiful young woman. It's encounters like this that remind me how time genuinely does move and things change. Hic Incipit Pestis only strengthens my impression of time as a circle, especially when conversation turned to the havoc Covid has played with people's lives.
But serious subjects stood no chance in the bright glow of birthday. Friday was delectable, Saturday was uproarious, though the young lady knew better than to join us falling into and out of the pubs of Merrie Olde England. We left the Garrick at closing time and went to some other place that didn't shut until the wee hours. Then a beleaguered taxi driver had the job of getting us home and suffered our singing all the way. We were genuinely terrible but he didn't object because with our noise and the full moon rising he probably thought he'd picked up a pack of werewolves.
R is coughing heavily and looking grim this morning. A test reveals no Covid but I recall getting multiple false negatives until so thick with viral load the test strip looked like someone had smudged eyeliner across it. By then it was too late. Hic we go again.
I found myself wondering about that flat circle Rust Cohle mentions in True Detective season 1. I get it, except the line making the circle isn't flat like a drawn circle or one of his beer cans. The circle's made from a plastic spiral coil/old style telephone flex, and you're in it. You can go straight through the centre of the coils and zoom right round the ring, or you can go the slow way, climbing to the top of each coil and down the other side, which is laborious but you get to see more even if often the view from the top of one coil is very like the view from its neighbour. In certain places where the coils separate you can fall out of the ring, landing either inside or outside. There now, perfect sense, leaving only one question:
Am I still drunk?
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no subject
Date: 2024-11-18 01:41 pm (UTC)Ha, ha, ha! No. But you may still be dreaming. 😀
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Date: 2024-11-19 09:53 am (UTC)