Taunton, Somerset

 

I LODGED last night in an inn named the Coach and Horses a little way outside

the town of Taunton, Somerset. This being a thatch-roofed cottage by the

roadside, it had looked a conspicuously attractive prospect from the Ford as I

had approached in the last of the daylight. The landlord led me up a timber

stairway to a small room, rather bare, but perfectly decent. When he inquired

whether I had dined, I asked him to serve me with a sandwich in my room, which

proved a perfectly satisfactory option as far as supper was concerned. But then

as the evening drew on, I began to feel a little restless in my room, and in the

end decided to descend to the bar below to try a little of the local cider.

 

There were five or six customers all gathered in a group around the bar - one

guessed from their appearance they were agricultural people of one sort or

another - but otherwise the room was empty. Acquiring a tankard of cider from

the landlord, I seated myself at a table a little way away, intending to relax a

little and collect my thoughts concerning the day. It soon became clear,

however, that these local people were perturbed by my presence, feeling

something of a need to show hospitality. Whenever there was a break in their

conversation, one or the other of them would steal a glance in my direction as

though trying to find it in himself to approach me. Eventually one raised his

voice and said to me:

 

"It seems you've let yourself in for a night upstairs here, sir."