Kingfisher farm cider

Kingfisher farm cider in a music-free pub. Does it get better? No, we agree. At last we can relax, at last we can think, we agree. A few sips in and it feels like we’ve gone to our reward, we agree. We want to stay here forever. Unfortunately there’s only one pub that’s music-free and only one pub that serves Kingfisher farm cider. Fortunately we’re in it. Hoo, I’d forgotten how heady this stuff is, I say. Lightweight, says X. What was it the publican said that time? I say. Sponsored by NASA, says X contentedly. Best drink ever, he says. An epic drink, I agree. And no music! Does it get better? Like mountain air. Crisp and flat and pure and cold and dry. The very distillation of applehood. Dewy dawns in Edenic orchards! Some day I’ll write an ode to Kingfisher cider, I say, some day I’ll give it the ode it deserves. Whatever, says X, get me another one, will you? OK but you won’t walk right, I say… My ears have gone weird, I say later, I can’t hear anything, what’s this stuff doing to me? Relax, he says, stay calm and take it steady like I told you. It won’t turn against you if you stay calm.