Here is this week’s Sunday photo:
For as long as I can remember, the pub had always been known as The White Horse.
They say there’s a ghost here and excuse the cliché, but on the night of a full moon, some swear they see it standing in the wings, proud and silent, waiting for food and water.
You see, the horse the pub was named after wasn’t white at all.
It was a dusky grey worker, nothing fancy or pretty, but a reliable steed used in the fields way before the modern town and roads came.
The stable occupied the site adjacent to the inn, where the men supped their ale and slapped the bottoms of the serving wenches.
It was the women and children who fed and watered it, giving it preference over themselves for the reward of a hard day’s work.
One evening, a young lad tripped and doused the animal with coarse flour whilst loading the cart for market.
The idea of having a White Horse pampered the ego of the village elders, and thus The Shire Inn was renamed.
The picture has not been modified other than size, and this was just an observation which inspired my story.