Cheap drink, big plush chairs and a gorgeous view that drew you right in.
They never mentioned its history despite it looking like a set from a period drama.
At least, that's what it looked like online, you've never been able to find it.
Your friends said to follow the wooden path just off the road to Tesco, past a wooden gate.
Everyone knew where the old boating lake was after all, but nobody seemed to have been there.
They spoke about The Boathouse though... it seemed hard for them not to.
You found the wooden gate tucked between a convenience shop and a petrol station.
The road beyond that was gravel between grassy banks that gradually morphed to marshlands.
By your friends constant reminders you were to turn left at a lightning burnt tree.
And you did, it stood out like a sore thumb among the boggy clumps of reeds and grass.
It was pitch black and tipped over, roots jagged and crumbling into the surrounding mud.
The gravel path was patchy as you followed it towards the famous Boathouse and the lake.
It didn't quite make sense to have a pub so far out from the town but it seemed to be popular still.
The path was getting harder to follow, it split into multiple others with no end in sight.
Before long you found yourself stranded among a bog you never knew existed.
You squatted low, catching your breath from the long walk and debating giving up entirely.
A sharp ring broke through the silence as you received a call from your friend.
He was already at The Boathouse with everyone else, they yelled through the phone for you to hurry.
As you explained that you were lost they quickly found a volunteer friend to fetch you.
And so you waited, crouched and anxious as the water around you bubbled occasionally.
The thought of going back grew more promising, the gravel path was still within sight and alluring.
Faint yelling met your ears as a figure in the distance yelled something at you.
Thinking it was your friend you headed that way, stepping carefully onto the stone slabs.
As you drew closer you found you didn't recognise them at all yet they knew your name.
They claimed to be your dear friend, grabbed your arm and practically hauled you along.
Said that everyone was already waiting for you but refused to give specific names.
Only said that you knew them, the regular lot, the guys, the old lads and such.
The marshlands soon gave way to the lake itself and there on the other side was a dilapidated pub.
It looked something like the photos online only much, much older.
Your "friend" led you along the narrow wooden walkway that crossed the lake.
It was partially submerged in places, overrun with pondweed in others but it seemed stable so far.
Their grip on your arm tightened so hard you felt your bones creak in their grasp.
They refused to let go, said it was too dangerous and that everyone was waiting.
The prospect of meeting this "everyone" was growing less and less appealing by the step.
Nearing the halfway point you heard the wooden boards creak loudly.
It was your only warning as the walkway collapsed, your "friend" dragging you down with them.
The icy cold water leapt into your lungs as you struggled to swim upwards.
Your "friend" was dragging you down, swimming far stronger than you, heading still to the pub.
You don't remember the rest of the swim, you shouldn't have lived in all honesty.
Yet you woke up in a warm chair with a pint in your hand, surrounded b smiling strangers.
They were all dripping with water, skin pale, bruised and bloated.
You were welcomed, they'd been waiting for you.
As you sat there, dripping and pale, The Boathouse on the river's edge began to feel more like home.
No comments:
Post a Comment