a step across the threshold of Crosskeys Inn, a brief embrace by a distant memory of a visit many years ago, muted browns and creams shape the room, old ephemera decorate the shelves, each with a story to tell no doubt, the sip of pints, the murmur of conversation, the splitting of the air with a sudden laugh, the crackle and fizzle of logs on the fire, a gust of cold air turbulates the warmth of the room, creamy pints arrest on the bar top and go down nicely, the bar man furrows his brow as he pours his perfect pint, “this is the best pint of Guinness in N Ireland” whispers the man next to me, and you know what, he may well be right

crosskeys 3

crosskeys 1


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January 4, 2016

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