Still in Bedale, while I finish off some articles. I find myself drawn to these little market towns, with their ginnels, alleyways, wide main streets and plentiful pubs. The pubs have a lot of character (the Wetherspooons corporation has yet to hoover up all the business) and, at 6pm on a Thursday, a cast of characters - mostly male - who seem to have nothing better to do than sit at the bar exchanging insults and pleasantries.
The women - in the Black Swan, at least - are busy putting up halloween decorations. Halloweeen is a event that’s passed me by: just another American import we’ve been sold. But everyone’s having such a good time, and the enthusiasm is infectious. Soon the pub is full of spiders, cobwebs, ghouls, ghosts, skulls, witches, broomsticks, other spooky stuff, and signs - Happy Halloween. Does anyone ever say that? The landlady’s son and daughter appear: the boy is dressed up, convincingly, as Count Dracula, with a cape, though he’s having trouble with the teeth. The girl has wings; maybe she’s a fairy. They’re both going to an early evening Halloween disco…
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