The English pub, a place of vibration and an olfactory slap to the senses. I remember still the rich, intense smell of stale beer, hoppy and spicy, and the lingering, seductive hints of nicotine that clung like a miasma. The smoke is now consigned to the past, but the hops and yeast remain. Pubs frighten me a little, with their alcohol-fueled sociability, and the leeriness that can at times appear. At other times, perhaps in the stillness of the afternoon, on a rainy day of grey sky and cold wind, they are warm and homely, an extension of our living space, less rushed than a coffee shop or cafe, a place to sit alone and yet not lonely. I bask in the smells of stew and pastry, the homeliness of chips cooking in bubbling fat.
This small work depicts the iconic and unusual Peveril of the Peak pub in Manchester. I chose this subject as I was intrigued by its colour and its eerieness.