Good Evening,
Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong.
On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon.
Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.
Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time.
Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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