How The Crown Bard in Rhyl Became a Sanctuary Through Grief

The Crown Bard, Rhyl, Denbighshire (closed 2017) The Crown Bard in Rhyl had always been there, on the main road on the way out of town. Despite living a five-minute walk away, I don’t remember ever going there in my teens, but I must’ve passed it thousands of times. Local wisdom dictated it was where the rugby lads drank, while the pub directly opposite was where you’d find the football crowd. It wasn’t sport that took me to the Bard, as it was known, for the first time, but shattering grief. I was 23 and Lee had just died. He was one of my closest friends, someone who, along with his twin brother, Dean, I couldn’t recall ever not knowing. We grew up doors apart, went through school together, spent endless hours playing football and tennis. When we were older, we graduated to going out drinking, PlayStation and holidays. Lee was killed outside a hotel on the other side of town. He was punched, fell on the stone steps and never woke up. I don’t know why we congregated in the Bard that day, but in the aftermath of Lee’s death, our friendship group, already tight, now forever bonded, all but moved into the pub’s back room, commandeering the pool table, dartboard and jukebox. When I think back on the weeks and months after, most of it too painful to dwell on, I don’t remember much else aside from being in the pub. Nothing was ever arranged; you just knew you could drop in and someone would be there. If not, you’d sit tight until they were. Baguette for lunch, mixed grill for tea. It used to come out on a sizzling metal tray, all fancy. It wasn’t a comfy room – the main bar was far more hospitable - but those threadbare benches and dark green panelling were ours and ours alone. Unless you’re from a small, goldfish bowl town, it’s hard to explain what happens after a local tragedy, but it’s claustrophobic, and it feels like all eyes are on you as the gossip mill fires up – everybody either wants to know what happened or thinks they already do. It was inescapable. But that back room at the Bard was a bubble, entirely insulated from time, gossip and inhumane questioning. No one in there started a sentence with, “Well, I heard that …” We all knew what happened, and it was the last thing anyone wanted to talk about. Kindness was all we now cared about – whose round it was and who was next on the pool table. Here we were, 22 or 23, still babies, ill-equipped but doing our best to comfort one another. I see my life split in two. Before Lee’s death, and after it. The innocence and possibility of youth giving way to the grim reality of adulthood. It feels as if the Crown Bard’s back room was the bridge between the two. It’ll very soon be the 21st anniversary of Lee’s death, and we’re approaching the bleak milestone of him being gone longer than he was with us. So much has changed since those days. The rest of us have grown up, settled down, had kids and done all the things Lee never got a chance to. It sometimes feels as if all this happened to a different group of friends, a lifetime ago, in a town far away. A feeling not helped by the fact that the Crown Bard is no longer standing. It finally closed in 2017 after a good few years of decline, and was knocked down some time after that. The last time I can remember going in there was to watch the 2006 World Cup final; it felt a bit weird to be back. Like opening the door to something I had been trying to leave behind. When I think about it now, aside from the lingering sadness, I’m proud of us, a group of friends realising that we needed to escape, and grateful that we found somewhere to do it. A McDonald’s drive-thru now stands where the Bard once was. Given Lee’s love of McChicken sandwiches, I don’t think he’d mind that at all.