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| - 'Twas naught a year ago, and the place was silent and still.
It felt like the invasion of someone's empty (albeit quaint) townhouse. With a creak, I opened the front door. I peered 'round. Grasping the shrunken wrists of my comrade in arms, we meandered through the rooms of the ground floor. From my voice came a booming yell: "Hellloooo?????!!". Once. Twice. Thrice. By the third time, She popped her head over the stairwell edge, like a bumblebee emerging from a bloom, and urged us upstairs into her abode. The hum and "Hoooo!" of the television set to a proper football match filled the hollow atmosphere as we settled in for a pint or two.
She'd done well with the place. The aged leather couches sunk with use but held well - the sign of a quality craftsmanship. The mood was serious, yet optimistic. As she shuffled behind the bar and topped off another complex blend of hops 'n barley, I could see the wisps of her hair grazing her brow, like the lines of history dancing along the notes of her service. This place, this, Queen & Beaver, was more than just a hallow of merriment.
This was her own private public house.
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