You'd recognize this smell anywhere.

This mixture of mud, stale food, booze and wet fabric brings you back to when your dad took you hear ten years ago when he was meeting his friends.

It seems to be just as filthy as it was when you last came. The wooden floor's got more chips, dents, and stains than before. Years of bar fights have put the rickety furniture on their last legs.

The walls are full of trophies, fishing nets, and harpoons. A huge framed black-and-white photograph of a man loading slabs of whale blubber into a huge cast-iron pot on the beach catches your eye for a second.

The patrons are vaguely familiar. You can't find any new faces, but everyone is slightly more weather-beaten than you remember.

A quick look at the tables show at least three empty bottles for every two people. No wonder this place is still in business.

Someone's coming up to you. Now that's a face you recognize. Your dad brought you out fishing with him once. Is he Oscar? Edgar? No, Oliver.

He sits down at your table. He's faster than you'd expect someone his age to be. "Hoy, it's you - that kid who came here with mummy and daddy! Where've they gone?" laughed Oliver.

You laugh nervously.

"So, what've you been up to?" He asks.