I knocked on the Boy’s bedroom door one summer morning when he was twenty-one and as there was no reply I entered the dark pit of ripe smells and found the above mythical, weighty personage in the middle of the floor.
This was not a beautiful old Queensland pub with wide, gracious verandahs or a place buzzing with farmers doing deals and boasting about getting one over on some other bloke. This pub served its one true purpose which was to supply ice cold beer to hot, languid cane farmers during the bulk of the year when there was nothing to do but watch the cane grow.
An Australian swan arriving on an ancient chalk stream in the Chilterns in the UK is maybe not as mysterious as it seems. This particular bird escaped from the garden of the local Red Lion pub; there are white swans on a lake not far away but our swan did not join together with them to produce grey swans or eat up all the weed.