It was a long, narrow room, and at the rear, beyond the beer kegs on tap, were small, round tables and chairs.

The barkeeper was blue-eyed, and had fair, silky hair peeping out from under a black silk skull-cap.

I remember he wore a brown Cardigan jacket, and I know precisely the spot, in the midst of the array of bottles, from which he took the bottle of red-coloured syrup.

He and my father talked long, and I sipped my sweet drink and worshipped him.

And for years afterward I worshipped the memory of him.
Despite my two disastrous experiences, here was John Barleycorn, prevalent and accessible everywhere in the community, luring and drawing me.