Day forty from Kristi

Charlie rested her front paws on the seat of the chair and waited. She could be patient because

she knew sooner or later some bleary-eyed drunk by the bar would walk over and lift her chubby backside up onto the chair. She was a bit worn out from a manic romp. She tore around a couple of circles in the backyard of the Bowl Inn, showing off her puppy spirit for my benefit. I like to flatter myself thinking she chose the chair because I had just sat in it, leaving my scent after some serious cuddling with her. She was not posing in this picture, but rather in repose. She removed her paw and replaced it with her jaw which then rested on the table by the radiantly grinning Buddha. Her eyes remained open as she listened to our music in the tiny barroom.

We drove to Hastingleigh from Birmingham on what could easily be seen as a fool's errand. We had played the night before at Chase Folk Club and had a winding, four hour ride ahead. I regretted the decision the moment I booked the Bowl Inn four months ago, looking at the ridiculously long distance, high fuel cost, and low pay for the tavern gig. But we had decided together that we'd rather be playing than not, every day possible on this tour. We wound around the one-lane backroads with high hedges where shoulders should be, fearing an oncoming car around a bend until finally the tiny, 350-year-old pub appeared, surrounded by big brick homes with large yards. This is the pinnacle of the British social climb, I'm told. When one arrives finally to a financial position able to buy solitude and space in the country; this is the top. So we drove past it, exhausted from hours of uncertainty and said to one another, "We could just blow this off. Nobody would miss us. I wouldn't feel guilty. We could keep driving." Then we decided to make the best of it and NOT mention our regrets. I have heard a musician say to me, the audience: "I don't know why I drove this far for this kind of money and so few people". So I resolved to NOT let on any of those feelings and make anyone feel bad for coming to see us. Steve said, "Forget it; nobody cares about you in a bar. Nobody will ask any questions so don't worry." We were a couple of hours early and immediately found ourselves in the company of a friendly couple. The first words out of the man's mouth sounded like the dialect of Clark Gable and I made stereotypical assumptions about his status. His wife sounded like Vivien Leigh without the southern affectation. I was right. They were the wealthiest couple around. He said, "What are you doing way out here? Where did you come from? Does this really pay enough to be worth your while? GET A MAP! This is madness!" Steve was wrong. They were very interested. He somehow decided our earnest musical endeavours were quite admirable though. In the end he invited us to stay at one of his properties in London and bought a CD.

The bar was packed with customers who had all the telltale symptoms of too much fun, as depicted in a Goya painting. Those scenarios show a charicature-like exaggeration of little tragicomic dramas in pubs, with predictable scenarios. From our position we could see them up close in this postage-stamp sized space stuffed with antiques. A middle-aged thick-waisted woman sits in a chair alone with red weepy eyes, occasionally standing up to be comforted by a man who thinks she'll feel better if he gives her bottom a squeeze. A beautiful blonde holds court, leaning alternately into two men as hours go by, until she nearly falls over. An attractive brunette listens intently to us, clapping, and encouraging me repeatedly to have another single of whiskey. Their volume obliterated any assumptions of egotism for artistic merit in our music but occasionally someone listened through the din to an entire song and applauded sincerely. I suspect the big difference between these patrons and Goya's creations is their status. They're not Goya's oppressed, ragged Dutch peasants, but rather more or less the same characters with money.

But we're safely finished with the most arduous stretch in this tour now, and relieved. We spent all of yesterday traversing the length of this island to return north for our last two gigs. I'm needing to feel welcomed home soon with the warmth of a luxurious Tacoma springtime. I still wear the wool coat I bought early in April every day here; it's cold.