There's a pub called the Boot Inn, in a small village in South Wiltshire. The landlord has pulled my pint before I reach the bar, and refills it without being asked as soon as it's empty. I have friends there, they seem pleased to see me. I don't have to work tomorrow so I can drink with them, chat a bit, have a laugh. After we've quaffed a few and the landlord has locked the door they might ask me to sing the odd song. Once, a few years ago, three of us sang the most amazing version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" anyone in the Boot had ever heard. Sadly we were all three drunk as skunks, and have never been able to remember how we did it, tho' we've tried many times to recapture the effect. So that's my great escape, the Boot Inn, Tisbury, a pub like no other.