Writing & the pub.

Scenes set in a pub seem to be great locations for writers to throw together characters and weave stories and dialogue. I don't think I've ever written anything that doesn't have key scenes set in a pub. As for actually writing in a pub, I've never done that, but maybe I should. It would have to be a particular type of pub. Not one that has a massive plasma screen for sports or a carvery section and hordes of kids running amok. Nor could it have an overly chatty but well-meaning publican – 'Oh what you writing? A novel? Ooooh! What's it about? When it's going to be published?' Maybe that's why I've never tried it. More research needed.

Do other writers recommend writing in pubs or bars? Laptop or pad and pen? Is booze recommended?

Unfamiliar Country only has one pub scene and it's a pivotal moment of the short story. Here's the first part of it.

~

The village the farmer had mentioned was nothing more than a crossroads with a few cottages and a pub. Boyd headed straight for the Butcher's Arms, glancing across to the car park. He saw it was almost totally empty and then stepped through the heavy front door into the lounge.

The room was empty, without any bar staff. He walked to one end of the bar and glanced down the side of the room. No one was sitting at any of the tables. He heard footsteps coming from somewhere behind the bar and out came a woman in her thirties, casually dressed and slightly overweight. She smiled at Boyd and placed her hands on the counter top.

"What can I get you?" She asked, her accent thick and friendly like Hughes' had been.

Boyd glanced at the pumps and opted for a beer from a local brewery.

"A pint of one of those please, and some ready salted crisps."

"Certainly."

Boyd noticed a rack on the bar which held newspapers. He selected a broadsheet, mostly because it offered more reading material than the tabloids.

"Three pounds and thirty pence. I'll just go and get your crisps," the woman said, placing the still-settling pint in front of Boyd, then moved to the other end of the bar.

Boyd pulled a selection of loose change from his pocket. Amongst the coins was the brass shell casing he had picked up from the forest floor a couple of days earlier. Boyd plucked it out and shoved it back in his pocket as the woman returned with the crisps. He handed her the correct amount and smiled. She smiled back and then started wiping the moisture from the bar where his freshly pulled pint had left its mark.

He picked up his beer and crisps and turned to cross the room and sit in the corner. As he looked up from his purchases he saw that the seat he was about to take up was occupied. Boyd stopped in his tracks. Sitting in the corner of the room was a man staring straight at him. His clothes were dirty and he was totally motionless. Boyd was rooted to the spot, staring back at the man.

"Are you all right, love?" The barmaid asked him, obviously confused by his sudden inertia.

"Er, yeah, fine," Boyd stammered. Still the man sat there, staring at him. The woman didn't seem to react to the strange figure.