The Black Buoy
The Black Buoy is dim, low-beamed, and hung with enough nautical rope to rig a small opera. The landlady pulls you a half of something dark without being asked; apparently you look like you need it.
In the corner by the fire sits an old fisherman the whole pub calls Old Salt, on the grounds that his real name was lost at sea. He is watching you with one eye. The other is watching the window, where the lighthouse would be, if the fog permitted.
"Edith's," he says, and raps the bench beside him. "Sit. I'll tell you the thing nobody tells you, on account of nobody asks."