The Golden Eagle hums with a quiet, steady soul, its walls steeped in the voices of centuries, the weight of stories pressed into every beam and board. A crossroads since the 1700s, where traders, travellers, and townsfolk paused to rest, talk, and breathe.

This photo was my way of catching its rhythm - the empty chairs waiting for conversation, the dartboard like a relic of simpler contests, the flower holding its ground in the dim light. Developing it in beer felt right, like weaving the image back into the pub's fabric, drawing out its character with the very thing that has sustained it all these years. It is not just a photo but a tribute to a place where time feels slower, steadier, and more accurate.