First proper Yorkshire pint. That’s the moment you know you’re truly back. Not the drive. Not the Moors. Not even walking through the door of the house. It’s that first sip in a dimly lit pub, where the air smells like old wood, slow-pulled ale, and conversations that have been going on for decades.
We didn’t even need to discuss where we were going. The Black Swan. Of course. You don’t betray your local.
The walk there was a full sensory slap of home.
Stone cottages. Thick grey sky. That specific North Yorkshire chill that goes straight through your coat like it’s personally offended by the idea of warmth. Bertie trotted ahead like he was leading an expedition. He’d been gone six months, yet he moved like he owned Pickering.
As soon as we pushed through the old wooden door, the wave of warmth hit—that pub smell. A mix of beer, fireplaces, and something fried. Exactly as it should be.
And then—
“Bloody hell, look who it is!”
They all turned at once. The usuals. Sat in their same spots like they hadn’t moved since October. Same expressions, like we’d only been gone a week.
“Alright?”
“Thought you’d abandoned us for sunnier shores.”
“Nah, we just like making a dramatic entrance.”
And that was that. No big reunion, no fuss. Just a few nods, a couple of shuffles to make room at the bar, and the clink of glasses.
The First Proper Pint
The pint hit the counter. Dark, smooth, Yorkshire-born and bred. None of that ice-cold Spanish lager nonsense. A proper pint.
First sip—ridiculously good. Creamy, rich, tasting of home. Like rainy afternoons and roaring fires and everything that’s ever been right about the world.
Patricia was already deep in conversation with Mary about some local drama—something about a planning permission scandal, a mysteriously disappearing garden gnome, and a man who fell in the beck after one too many. Classic Pickering.
Meanwhile, I got dragged into a pint-fuelled debate about whether the world’s gone to sh*t or if it’s just louder about it now.
(“People don’t talk to each other anymore.”
“We’re literally talking right now, Pete.”)
Bertie, The Pub Menace
Bertie was being Bertie. Working the room. Getting his ears scratched by the barmaid. Begging for crisps from an elderly couple who clearly didn’t stand a chance. At one point, someone threw a beer mat, and before we could stop him, he’d launched himself under the nearest table like it was a military operation.
And then, as expected—
“Oi, whose bloody dog is this?”
We looked over.
Bertie. On a barstool. Looking very pleased with himself.
“Not ours.”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
The pint carried on. More laughs, more stories. Galicia got brought up. The sun, the slow pace, the weird tortilla obsession. Pete, who once claimed the furthest he’d been was Scarborough, was suddenly an expert on Spanish taxes.
(“Bet they tax you for the air there.”)
It was like we’d never left.
Time Doesn’t Freeze, But It Waits
That’s the thing about home. It doesn’t hold its breath for you. You leave, it carries on—pints poured, gnomes stolen, people tumbling into becks. But when you walk back through that pub door, it folds you back in like you never left.
We finally left when the fire had burned low and the laughter had turned to that comfortable kind of quiet. Bertie, exhausted from his campaign of mischief, barely opened an eye as we pulled our coats on.
Walking home, the streets were still. Cold air, familiar shadows, the feeling of Yorkshire wrapping itself around us again.
Yeah. We were back. Properly this time.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, we’d do it all over again.
