No idea where this title came from, cause this post has nothing to do with soup, but my titles come first and the rest comes later and often changed at some point to more reflect what I wrote; so who knows what direction I had intended, but whatever.
Now, if there is one person I wish I lived closer to, hands down, wish I lived in Ilderton. Course I’d be poverty-stricken, not to mention an alcoholic, however, I would perhaps be well fed; via discourse and via the gut.
I’m not a real gal’s gal, not into the idle chit-chat, the, em, how do I put this, the competition, the whatever. I’m maybe just to much the introvert to play the reindeer games, least not now, bores me. Not to say all women fall into this category, but enough over the course of my life to come to the conclusion that I’m not like them.
And if you ever do find yourself just a little North of London, Ontario, swing on into the King Edward and ask Deb to tell ya the story bout who worked their back in the days it was General Merchantile, now THAT story is her’s to tell, and her alone.
From May 19th, 2017
Celebrating after a hockey game, with a group of giddy girls, my sister and the other parents decided to check out the pub in town where they were playing, “eating the best wings she’d ever had in her life”, this woman who ran the place came over and asked her if she was my sister. And that’s how we got back in touch.
Fast forward now a few years, and I’m at work, early morn, getting customer orders ready for the day, when this very familiar voice comes over the radio, cutting through the chatter of my co-workers, and sending me back in time.
It was a voice I had not heard in, em, let me think now, just over a decade I think? That British accent broke through it all, and I rose up from whatever I was doing and stopped dead and listened; it was an ad for their pub – The King Edward. A big ol’smile broke across my face, and I was lost in time. God I missed those guys, I mused.
Deb and I were friends, kvetching over this that and the other, in the heart of Port Credit, sitting at a bar that doesn’t exist anymore. I’d moved there to start over, and she was the one who told me I was probably going through early menopause, as I waded through the grief and sadness of losing both my marriage, and then not long after my Mom. Reeling still a little from the strangeness of the torrent of losses, and bravely struggling my introverted self forward, making new friends at the rate of a snail.
See, I don’t always make friends easily and I don’t have a lot in common with most women.
And as far as women’s issues go, I come from a generation of women who really didn’t discuss menopause, it was this big open secret that you just didn’t talk about openly, and with my Mom now gone, I had no one to tell me this stuff. At least no one close to me at the time.
But there we were, side by side at the bar, talking about hot flashes and night sweats, menopause madness and all the wonderful ass crap that my ageing body had up its sleeve.
Knowledge is power.
Anywho. We’ve connected through social media, we’ve talked about getting together, now that I’m so much closer to her, but it just hasn’t happened. I have my bicycle now, and with that freedom, I can peddle my way through the city, up through the North of London, and make my way down those country roads to Ilderton.
How they got there is really a story in itself. A story of what happens when you follow your heart.
So way back in the long ago, back in England, Rich was some sort of Audio Engineer. Sorry, I’m bad with those sorts of details, but anyways some big speaker company here in Canada lured him over, and so he came to Canada. He’d been brought up in a pub back home, and even though he was well respected for his talent in his profession, inside he always I guess held onto this dream of one day running his own proper pub here in Canada.
Something honourable in that, you know, basically knowing you will work 7 days a week, hauling ass 16 or so hours a day. I mean, Rich knew what it took, he had no illusions.
So one day he met Deb, they married, bought a house, and life was grand. At some point, I would imagine he told her about his dream, and so they came to share it.
Out there in the wild, that dream went out into the ether, swirled around for a few years. I’ve always believed that at some point dreams, you know, the stuff that is meant for you, will not pass you by. It is like it almost takes on a life of its own, and one day some kind spirit catches wind of your dream and says “make it so“.
Well, we all know it is never that easy, eh? Always has to be a catch. Yes, the catch. The catch is they found the place one day, the perfect place, but first, they had to sell their house.
Ah, there’s the rub. So it wasn’t selling, and it wasn’t selling, and they even went so far as to get onto one of those “we’ll redecorate your house so you can sell it” shows – which by the way, was a real hoot as Rich is, um, rather opinionated, to say the least. And with that British accent, I think Manchester, you know everything that comes out of his mouth always has that edge to it. Well, plus the fact Rich’s mind has an edge to it, it doesn’t work like yours and mine, and his level of sarcasm and complete disdain for stupid is just barely kept on its leash. I’ve been present at the places that British tongue of his can go.
Their place didn’t sell, and they lost the pub to another bidder. So that was that.
Time went by, don’t ask me how much, as those days now to me are preserved in amber and I have no sense of time.
But, like I said, what is for you will not pass you by.
Places I believe have a spirit about them, and I think sometimes they choose their owners, and so the original deal fell through, their house sold, and so the King Edward in Ilderton, Ontario, Canada came to be theirs.
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