by Alan Fowler

It was a fairly typical weekend in Langdale. It had rained on and off more on than off all Saturday. Some of us had convincingly demonstrated that one could get just as wet in half a day as in a full day, by walking up Side Pike in a monsoon. After a meal back at the campsite, the talk naturally centred on which pub we should honour with our presence that evening. “How about The Drunken Duck?” I suggested. “The what? Where’s that?” “It’s a pub somewhere between here and Coniston. It’s supposed to have some good sing songs.”

Armed with this scant knowledge, a convoy of four vehicles set forth. A look at the map will show quite a network of minor roads in this area and with the rain persisting sic it down there was no one around to ask for directions. Suddenly we saw the lights from a garage ahead so we drove onto the forecourt. A man ran from the office with a mac over his head, thinking he had some customers.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me where The Drunken Duck is, please?” A look of disappointment crossed his face. “Yes, next left, then right about half a mile further on.” “Thanks mate.”

We drove off into the dark and rain leaving the dampened attendant to walk back to the shelter of his warm office. Five minutes later the second car pulled up at the garage. The attendant again put his mac over his head and ran out.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me where The Drunken Duck is, please?” “Yes, next left, then right about half a mile further on.” “Thanks mate.” And that car drove off.

Five minutes later a third car arrived and an even damper attendant emerged. The same question was asked and the same reply given. u A further five minutes and the fourth and final car arrived. As this car drove off the now soaking attendant was heard to cry in an agonised voice: “Doesn’t Anybody Want to Buy Any Petrol?”