It can be bloody difficult to leave a good pub.
You go in with the intention of having a quick half, seriously, just the one, or perhaps just a couple, and you leave hours later with the hangover already at your heels.
It’s not always the pleasure of the beer itself – let’s be honest, does the fourth pint in a session ever taste even remotely as satisfying as the first? – but the particular juxtaposition of company and situation.
On Friday, we stayed out later than intended because we were enjoying each other’s company, not distracted by TVs or errands, sorting out Brexit and the environment and debating why some Bristol pubs work and some don’t.
On Saturday, we stayed later than intended in the pub because we were enjoying the company of Ray’s parents, euchre cards and family stories flying.
On Sunday, we stayed later than intended in the pub because two Texans came to say hello at The Drapers and the Drapers insisted on being its idyllic best, all warm conversation and handshakes with strangers.
And we knew when we did get up and go, chased out of the pub after time at the bar and the appearance of the bleach bucket, that we were leaving the weekend behind, with all its promise and space to breathe.