A Cherubic Sign

I quite often drive through the night to get back home after a job. Coming over the Cotswold Hills on a moonlit night, nothing on the roads, a glimpse of a badger, the ghostly moth-like flight of a barn owl, all these things combine to form a pleasurable experience. I rarely feel tired but, in extremis, there's a service station at Oxford that will pump something vaguely like coffee into me at any hour. I entertain myself; I don't often listen to the radio when I'm driving, just relish the peace of my motorised haven, swear at the occasional trucker who dares to impede my progress and marshall my thoughts into a web of irrelevance.

Once home I can't go straight to bed - I've tried it in the past and no matter how fatigued I feel, I just lie awake, the road reeling on in front of my eyes. So I read for half an hour or switch on the computer and return from my self-imposed Internet exile. Getting back into blogging takes some effort. Perhaps I'm really not vain enough for this game although that seems unlikely, given how many coats and jackets I own.

And so to this image of an inn sign in Dartmouth. As Peter has pointed out recently, Canbush Tours is heavily accented (as is its organiser) towards food and drink. This pub has a good reputation for both and it should invoke pleasant thoughts of a cool (not cold) pint of real ale and some treacle tart. Unfortunately I've experienced neither at the Cherub as it always seems to be jam-packed with Hooray-Henry's and yachties and they don't make for good company. I go elsewhere.