About three decades and a half ago there was a pleasant bar where I used to drop in for a quiet pint.

That was a practice I have not participated in for several years. I am the worse for that. If I had continued with that pleasant pastime the water that has flowed under the bridge may have been somewhat less turbulent. Unfortunately, one cannot relive the past.

The bar was part of an old hotel that was no longer frequented by guests. The aging couple made a living from the proceeds of the bar. The place was popular with locals and tourists alike.

My visits were invariably made in the daytime when I usually had the place to myself. That suited me just fine. There are times when one needs to escape from the maddening crowd and that bar provided such respite.

Being an experienced bar operator the woman did not insist in engaging in conversation. A few pleasantries were conducted while she was slowly filling the pint of Guinness. When she had presented me with the drink, accepted my money and returned my change she retired to someplace out of sight. I was left to my own thoughts.

There was something about the fittings of old Irish bars that were extremely relaxing. The ornate woodwork, stained glass, timeless advertisements, mirrors, shelves of bottles, upturned liquor containers with their measurement optics, and subtle lights were all conducive to relaxation. The taste of Guinness from a properly stored barrel was the perfect accompaniment to the experience.

The couple is long gone and the building has been demolished to make way for some modern development. There are other bars in the village where people gather to talk, drink, and socialize. Most of them do lunches and dinners. Nobody could blame them for not tolerating some quiet guy who simply liked to sit in solitude and spend an hour nursing a single pint of Guinness.

That would not pay their overheads.