Autumn fell over Montrose.  The Scottish weather was a bit nippy, and it was near perfect for flying even if the fans might have been slightly cold.  Falmouth had been near embarrassed for their opponents.  Montrose on the pitch today, and James noted that a large amount of fans left long before the game had ended.  While he was happy about the win, and his performance in it, he had hoped quidditch fans to be more loyal (no matter which team they supported).  That was the one odd thing about becoming a professional.  Unless you stayed with one team for your entire career, you generally started rooting for players younger and older than you, but never the same age.

He imagined that there was a pretty good party back at their home base.  For whatever reason though, the guys decided to spend the evening here before heading back to practice on Tuesday morning.  It was rather odd.  Very few people visited a bar on a Sunday night.  James imagined upsetting the home crowd would not help things either.  Still, the group had the bar more or less to themselves.  They were rather hard to miss with their matching robes and boots.

Taking a sip of ale, James allowed the slightly bitter liquid to flow down his throat.  It was a surprisingly crisp taste, and left very little residue on the tongue with a light .  The group was currently taking bets on whether or not they should try some Haggas.  James never understood the point of eating questionably nutritional food that tasted bad.  If he wanted things to taste bad, he would have downed his nutrient potions or tested ingredients.  His attention was distracted when someone walked into a bar.  'Huh' James thought, 'did not think anyone else would show up today'.