Bosham Pub

Currently sitting in pub in Bosham with a beer and my laptop editing my late mornings work. With the realisation that the undiscovered images of this very photographed village, lie right here in the pub.

The pub is a haven of warmth and comfort, its wooden beams darkened with age and history. A crackling log fire in the hearth casts flickering golden light across the room, illuminating the gleam of polished brass and the deep red upholstery of the well-worn chairs. The scent of burning wood mingles with the rich aroma of ale, filling the air with a sense of timeless contentment.

Seated by the window, I cradle a pint of amber ale, the glass cool against my fingertips. The first sip is smooth and full-bodied, a perfect complement to the comforting hum of quiet conversation around me. Outside, beyond the thick, wavy glass of the old window, the tide has drawn back to reveal glistening mudflats where wading birds pick their way through shallow pools. The sea air, heavy with salt, drifts in when the door swings open, mixing with the warmth inside.

The light flooding the sky, dusky with blacks and greys reflecting off the still water of the harbour. Boats, their masts gently swaying, rest in the shallow waters, their reflections shimmering with each ripple. Across the bay, the silhouette of Bosham church stands against the evening sky, its spire a timeless sentinel over the sleepy village.

I take another slow sip, sinking deeper into my chair, letting the moment stretch—content, warm, and utterly at peace.

Done