I was 23 and one of my closest friends had just died. Our friendship group all but moved into the Bard’s back room, insulated from time and gossip, doing our best to comfort one another
The Crown Bard in Rhyl had always been there, on the main road on the way out of town. Despite living a five-minute walk away, I don’t remember ever going there in my teens, but I must’ve passed it thousands of times. Local wisdom dictated it was where the rugby lads drank, while the pub directly opposite was where you’d find the football crowd.
It wasn’t sport that took me to the Bard, as it was known, for the first time, but shattering grief. I was 23 and Lee had just died. He was one of my closest friends, someone who, along with his twin brother, Dean, I couldn’t recall ever not knowing. We grew up doors apart, went through school together, spent endless hours playing football and tennis. When we were older, we graduated to going out drinking, PlayStation and holidays.
Lee was killed outside a hotel on the other side of town. He was punched, fell on the stone steps and never woke up.
I don’t know why we congregated in the Bard that day, but in the aftermath of Lee’s death, our friendship group, already tight, now forever bonded, all but moved into the pub’s back room, commandeering the pool table, dartboard and jukebox. When I think back on the weeks and months after, most of it too painful to dwell on, I don’t remember much else aside from being in the pub. Nothing was ever arranged; you just knew you could drop in and someone would be there. If not, you’d sit tight until they were. Baguette for lunch, mixed grill for tea. It used to come out on a sizzling metal tray, all fancy. It wasn’t a comfy room – the main bar was far more hospitable - but those threadbare benches and dark green panelling were ours and ours alone.
