Leaning Cosie in Bristol
By Michael Quin
I fled London weeks ago, perpetually ill and altogether uninspired, convinced that both were symptoms of life there. Arriving to Bristol I knew nothing of the age-old fame of its ‘Bristol-built’ ships, its West Country cider houses, or its strong hand in the trade of African people as slaves. The Severn River has long since buried the trade in its silt, and now as I stroll through St. Paul’s, I’m passing the former mansions of those very slave traders, with a tipsy cider sway from the Old Duke down the road. I see there exists a new human trade in St. Paul’s, staffed by haggard women, but I’m there for something else.
In these lonely streets the cold pushes me on with the urgency of fear, whilst apprehensions of warm dancing bodies draw me near. Wintry figures stalk each corner I pass, and I feel a spectacle in streets where nobody quite exists in this moment; where all are waiting. It’s business for another night, or for another hit to forget all those nights. Meanwhile leaves shiver, silver in the moonlight, piled against the frozen church façade. Even these seem to be waiting, perhaps for those shipping winds, rolling in from the Severn River gorge to carry them away, to dissolve in some other place. A few blocks and a few whores later, all asking, ‘Cigarette darlin’? Lookin for bis’ness?’, and I apologize without knowing why. I scan shadows and distant objects, half expecting them to materialise as something more threatening than bodies for sale, but nothing else is braving the cold it seems. I continue to brave the cold, and I have almost arrived now, I can smell it!
One more corner and one more apology, then a familiar aroma is hanging heavy in the frosty air, accompanied by plodding bass lines of reggae rhythm. At once the air’s frigid mood is disturbed. Then so am I by yet another shivering barelegged whore, but past her and I’m descending the stairs into the vaulted basement bar. Warm lights glow from windows beside the stairs, and I taste that moment, soon to be mine, of opening that heavy wooden door - That greedy wooden door, which boxes this bar and all its goodness inside, away from these frigid streets.
Through the door and another cosy night begins to unfold before my eyes, like poetry in motion and sound. The hefty Jamaican man by the door rolls his eyes to meet mine without so much as turning his head, and past his mass of black leather jacket, the bar seems alive. A couple of people at the old cellar bar will always turn to see who has just entered into the festivities. Sometimes the barman is waiting with a smile and a welcoming nod, other times listening intently to stories at the end of the bar, having a smoke with an old friend who may or may not have been know very long. The space lives with an intensity of energy and warmth into which I submerge and adjust, under an assault of smells and sounds and bass vibrations.
Scattered in three's and four's around the low wooden tables are the most relaxed people in Bristol, maybe the world. Heads on loose necks smile and nod to the music, whilst several others reel from laughter at some Sunday-night telling of the weeks events. I observe stories being told all around me, and from here the friends seem engaged. Others are people-watching, but no one seems to be on the prowl. Bodies sit deep in benches reminiscent of those at Sunday mass, whilst here and there some casually roll in the flickering candle-light of the tables. Others are dancing in a slow reggae step, or leaning at great angles against stone or wood. The vaulted cellar roof above the dance floor seems to be leaning lazily too, as if it were supported solely by the speakers embedded in its aged smoke-stained bricks, or else by the uplifting Jamaican dub rhythms. It makes a cosy place for leaning, one feels so at home. I find the need to remind myself I’m in a public place, even if I don’t know a single person here.
The coldness of the street outside feels a universe away. Life’s trials seem so laughable in here, and the anxiety they cause, merely an over reaction. Listening to the stories being spun around me, I realise the rest of those gathered here feel the same way. As I look around at the cosy crowd - slouching, leaning, laughing, bobbing around on the dance floor – smiles meet me. I conclude to my friend Mark that it’s smiles all round for another Sunday night, as he arrives with 2 pints and a scoff at my full pint, claiming I’m one behind already.
We claim a table and it’s one of the last. Once Bristol’s pubs close to mark the end of another weekend, the faithful carry on down here. As I tell Mark my petty woes they all seem a farce. Old grievances are exhaled and fresh ideas are sparked. The low-roofed cellar is as smoky as ever, but I can't really smell it anymore. Frigid night air lays in wait outside that heavy wooden door, but in the world inside, this is what air always smells like, the pungency of herbal resin and sweat.
The night rolls on; one girl asked with a please and two thank you’s to stash her cider on our table while she danced, and now her boyfriend is spilling his praise for Bristol out to Mark and I, who wholeheartedly agree. Bristol’s legendary DJ Derrick has been spotted dancing in his tweed suit to a classic rocksteady track from decades ago when he was an accountant, and I just had to join in. The dance floor fills with contented people who came for more than a good seat at the bar and found what they were looking for on these few square meters in front of the decks. Candle-lit sessions around the dance floor render smoke machines and lights redundant. This dance floor, more than most, feeds and is fed by its surroundings. The small space is hallowed stone, worm smooth from so many dancing feet, shuffling to so many melodies of life in rhyme.
Dreadlocks are swaying above light-footed boogies, and Mark and I are finally off the pints and onto the juices. I’ve already been lapped by Mark at this stage by a few pints, so after my reminiscing about Dutch coffee shops and the joys of supping fresh fruit juice at times like these, I’m relieved when Mark agrees to do just that. Orange on the rocks, tart cranberry and zesty lemon at one in the morning, is only fun here. The skins roll on and so do our stories, as lavish and satisfying as the juices we nurse like expensive cocktails. All the while roll on the smooth skanking tunes of Radio One, Trojan, Greensleeves, Tuff Gong and all else reggae and dubwise, classic and rare. When Bob Marley sings of freedom every person knows the words and now seems to be singing with him.
The bass heavy music is loud enough to send vibrations up my legs from the stone floor, and granules are spurred into dancing with tobacco along the paper of their fate. Another friend of mine is smiling as he takes it all in, and confesses he'd never heard reggae properly until he felt it vibrating in his jeans.
The clock above the fireplace is claiming it’s the early hours of Monday morning, and without bitterness I begin to gather jacket and scarf. We leave with a smile and a glow, ready to face a new week and whatever it may bring. Only one stop remains, and no matter how bad the idea seemed that day or may seem tomorrow, in this moment it is essential. Besides, they will be expecting us.
Like desirous moths we converge on the fluorescent lights of Lickin’ Chicken’. Deliberations drag on far longer than the situation deserves, yet in good humour the merits of each meal are discussed. While this night continues, Monday morning and decisiveness remain a sleep away. Finally we order, and Mark’s taking on another family pack, and the ever-friendly Arab men throw extra nuggets our way on account of our regular patronage in those lonely hours - always on the way home from our Sunday session, and always with a please and two thank you’s.
In these lonely streets the cold pushes me on with the urgency of fear, whilst apprehensions of warm dancing bodies draw me near. Wintry figures stalk each corner I pass, and I feel a spectacle in streets where nobody quite exists in this moment; where all are waiting. It’s business for another night, or for another hit to forget all those nights. Meanwhile leaves shiver, silver in the moonlight, piled against the frozen church façade. Even these seem to be waiting, perhaps for those shipping winds, rolling in from the Severn River gorge to carry them away, to dissolve in some other place. A few blocks and a few whores later, all asking, ‘Cigarette darlin’? Lookin for bis’ness?’, and I apologize without knowing why. I scan shadows and distant objects, half expecting them to materialise as something more threatening than bodies for sale, but nothing else is braving the cold it seems. I continue to brave the cold, and I have almost arrived now, I can smell it!
One more corner and one more apology, then a familiar aroma is hanging heavy in the frosty air, accompanied by plodding bass lines of reggae rhythm. At once the air’s frigid mood is disturbed. Then so am I by yet another shivering barelegged whore, but past her and I’m descending the stairs into the vaulted basement bar. Warm lights glow from windows beside the stairs, and I taste that moment, soon to be mine, of opening that heavy wooden door - That greedy wooden door, which boxes this bar and all its goodness inside, away from these frigid streets.
Through the door and another cosy night begins to unfold before my eyes, like poetry in motion and sound. The hefty Jamaican man by the door rolls his eyes to meet mine without so much as turning his head, and past his mass of black leather jacket, the bar seems alive. A couple of people at the old cellar bar will always turn to see who has just entered into the festivities. Sometimes the barman is waiting with a smile and a welcoming nod, other times listening intently to stories at the end of the bar, having a smoke with an old friend who may or may not have been know very long. The space lives with an intensity of energy and warmth into which I submerge and adjust, under an assault of smells and sounds and bass vibrations.
Scattered in three's and four's around the low wooden tables are the most relaxed people in Bristol, maybe the world. Heads on loose necks smile and nod to the music, whilst several others reel from laughter at some Sunday-night telling of the weeks events. I observe stories being told all around me, and from here the friends seem engaged. Others are people-watching, but no one seems to be on the prowl. Bodies sit deep in benches reminiscent of those at Sunday mass, whilst here and there some casually roll in the flickering candle-light of the tables. Others are dancing in a slow reggae step, or leaning at great angles against stone or wood. The vaulted cellar roof above the dance floor seems to be leaning lazily too, as if it were supported solely by the speakers embedded in its aged smoke-stained bricks, or else by the uplifting Jamaican dub rhythms. It makes a cosy place for leaning, one feels so at home. I find the need to remind myself I’m in a public place, even if I don’t know a single person here.
The coldness of the street outside feels a universe away. Life’s trials seem so laughable in here, and the anxiety they cause, merely an over reaction. Listening to the stories being spun around me, I realise the rest of those gathered here feel the same way. As I look around at the cosy crowd - slouching, leaning, laughing, bobbing around on the dance floor – smiles meet me. I conclude to my friend Mark that it’s smiles all round for another Sunday night, as he arrives with 2 pints and a scoff at my full pint, claiming I’m one behind already.
We claim a table and it’s one of the last. Once Bristol’s pubs close to mark the end of another weekend, the faithful carry on down here. As I tell Mark my petty woes they all seem a farce. Old grievances are exhaled and fresh ideas are sparked. The low-roofed cellar is as smoky as ever, but I can't really smell it anymore. Frigid night air lays in wait outside that heavy wooden door, but in the world inside, this is what air always smells like, the pungency of herbal resin and sweat.
The night rolls on; one girl asked with a please and two thank you’s to stash her cider on our table while she danced, and now her boyfriend is spilling his praise for Bristol out to Mark and I, who wholeheartedly agree. Bristol’s legendary DJ Derrick has been spotted dancing in his tweed suit to a classic rocksteady track from decades ago when he was an accountant, and I just had to join in. The dance floor fills with contented people who came for more than a good seat at the bar and found what they were looking for on these few square meters in front of the decks. Candle-lit sessions around the dance floor render smoke machines and lights redundant. This dance floor, more than most, feeds and is fed by its surroundings. The small space is hallowed stone, worm smooth from so many dancing feet, shuffling to so many melodies of life in rhyme.
Dreadlocks are swaying above light-footed boogies, and Mark and I are finally off the pints and onto the juices. I’ve already been lapped by Mark at this stage by a few pints, so after my reminiscing about Dutch coffee shops and the joys of supping fresh fruit juice at times like these, I’m relieved when Mark agrees to do just that. Orange on the rocks, tart cranberry and zesty lemon at one in the morning, is only fun here. The skins roll on and so do our stories, as lavish and satisfying as the juices we nurse like expensive cocktails. All the while roll on the smooth skanking tunes of Radio One, Trojan, Greensleeves, Tuff Gong and all else reggae and dubwise, classic and rare. When Bob Marley sings of freedom every person knows the words and now seems to be singing with him.
The bass heavy music is loud enough to send vibrations up my legs from the stone floor, and granules are spurred into dancing with tobacco along the paper of their fate. Another friend of mine is smiling as he takes it all in, and confesses he'd never heard reggae properly until he felt it vibrating in his jeans.
The clock above the fireplace is claiming it’s the early hours of Monday morning, and without bitterness I begin to gather jacket and scarf. We leave with a smile and a glow, ready to face a new week and whatever it may bring. Only one stop remains, and no matter how bad the idea seemed that day or may seem tomorrow, in this moment it is essential. Besides, they will be expecting us.
Like desirous moths we converge on the fluorescent lights of Lickin’ Chicken’. Deliberations drag on far longer than the situation deserves, yet in good humour the merits of each meal are discussed. While this night continues, Monday morning and decisiveness remain a sleep away. Finally we order, and Mark’s taking on another family pack, and the ever-friendly Arab men throw extra nuggets our way on account of our regular patronage in those lonely hours - always on the way home from our Sunday session, and always with a please and two thank you’s.
posted by Michael Quin at 4:24 PM
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