Quench

So, for the mature session drinker such as myself, a long hill climb to Bedfordshire is where most evenings end. A little trip to heaven on the wings of my love, Prescott, after staring into the orange, yellow, and gold flames teasing the logs in the grate while supping the frothy head and drawing slowly on the nectar until I’m savouring the beer that is dousing, quenching, lulling the fire within.

I’m in heaven when you smile, says Van the Man, with the halo of light glowing over his drained glass of Great British lubricant.