A Pub in Dulwich

The Pub in Dulwich reeks of stale beer and makes me warm with memories of the Sammy fraternity house of 20+ years ago.   The seats are crushed red velvet.  A piano sits in the corner, light brown wood, fairly banged up and looks like it hasn’t been played since the war.  There are saloon doors that are nicked and scraped, maybe a knife fight relic.  In the back there is a garden with tables and patrons, picnic tables out front with people sitting alone and in groups talking and reading despite the chill and the darkening sky.

I ordered a lager and tried to scratch out a few words in a notebook.  How did I get to this village seven miles south of London, but a world away?

Heading to my son’s first JV Rugby game (at Dulwich College) I take the over-ground train, with the advice of an office-mate, to West Dulwich.  Trouble is when I get to the train station there is only East and North Dulwich train stops.  I am late, as usual, so I excitedly email and text my office-mate, but of course Blackberry is down (I don’t yet know this) and none of this is getting through.

I get on the train toward Dulwich and she calls and advises North Dulwich is best, should be a five minute walk to Dulwich College, which you can’t miss because the campus of this near 400 year old school lays across acres of perfectly trimmed gardens and fields (Founded 1619).  I arrive at North Dulwich and a schoolboy advises me it’s a five minute walk to the right.  Five minutes later a lady with a dog advises me to turn around and walk to the corner and it’s “a good 40 minute walk.”

I begin to run, all the while texting my son, but again, nothing it going through, although I don’t know why.

Twenty minutes and a full sweat, in my office suit, I get to a fork in the road.  I ask a young mom with two kids.  “Take a left at the fork and it’s right there.”

I go left and continue running, still nothing.  An old man on a bench tells me it’s another 10 minutes on the right, but the pitches (fields) are on the left.

I arrive at this monstrosity, walk into the school and ask the janitor which field is the game on?

“We have 16 fields, you need to go to reception.”

At reception a frazzled woman with frizzy hair behind a large desk asks if I can wait.  I tell her I can’t and I need to know the pitch for the ASL rugby game.  Three wrong folders later she tells me pitch 6 and points me in a direction.

I run across the campus, through the parking lot, behind the dorms and arrive at pitch 6.

Sweating, tired, but relieved I see my son on the sideline.  He runs to me, big smile.

“My game was cancelled.  Did you get my text?”

I realize, as the rain begins to fall, that this is not his fault, nor anybody elses, but I still want to run on the field and tackle one of the players and ram him into the ground.

“No, I didn’t get your text.”

“Yea, not enough players.  The Varsity team is playing, though, I might get into that game.”

Two hours later the game ends.  He did not get in, but seems content with the ball game he and the others played on the sideline.  By then I have cooled down both physically and emotionally.  He heads to dinner and then back home with the team.  I start my journey to the train.  This time I don't run through Dulwich, I walk.  Past Roger Pope and Partners Independent Dispensing Opticians, past Art the Stationer and the Green Village Toy Shop.  And then of course the Pub.  Where I rest before the final leg.

My Blackberry springs to life with a ring. It’s home.  “Are you almost here?  We’re ready to eat dinner.”

I inform them that I'm in no rush.  "I'll be awhile."