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The van is being buffeted by the wind, a good sign I hope. “You can never be too sure if the weather will do what they say it will do,” says the spirited landlady of the pub, sensing I was at the mercy of the elements. I’d stopped for a sandwich and the pub was the only place open. The TV muted in the background showed images of the Las Vegas massacre and the sobering scenes stifled conversation amongst the local men at the bar. A young man stared at his pint intently looking for an answer, it wasn’t there. I don’t have one either, pay the bill and leave looking for a different sort of liquid therapy.