[ It's a strange thing, to feel his own feet slow where other men's quicken.
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
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Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.