There is something ultra-special about a pub in an English village, being outside with friends. Standing outside around weathered tables, for a relaxed couple of hours, taking turns buying rounds of drinks. Going in to the pub and walking across a multicoloured psychedelic swirly carpet that must have had more beer poured on it than one would like to imagine, and inhaling the smell of disinfectant, and damp from the bathrooms and the old walls, the fug from the carpet and when leaning on the counter to order a beer, or a cider having your underarms make contact with dark sticky beery wood and stick there. Ordering from the barman or the barmaid, they always seem to be brandishing a dish cloth, and waiting for all the beers to be poured. And then bringing them out to the group, navigating the random steps carefully to try to make sure you won’t spill anything. And then as you get peckish ordering fish and chips with a side of mushy peas, and wonderful malt vinegar. Somehow you can spend a whole afternoon in this way, and life just releases its brutal grip on you for a moment, as you chat and relax and enjoy the moment. If you haven’t tried this yet, get thee to the nearest pub. Take a plane if you must. Trust me, it is worth it.