Mosley Arms

Standing on a forlorn spot of Mill Street is the Mosley Arms, a decrepit-​looking haunt built for seemingly nobody in particular. It wasn’t that late in the night when I breezed in like a less heroic Oates but the whole pub felt like it was buckling beneath an oily sense of dread.
The roaring fire in the hearth, rather than add some comfort, just made it seem more depressing, as if it was the last day of civilisation and the barmaid was about to start burning her accounts for warmth. Perhaps I’m being too literary, but when a pub makes you forget you’re not miles from the rest of mankind, it doesn’t count as the capital of Funsville in my books.