YOUR CIDER GEORGE.

Limited Edition Print

Print Only. Frame sold separately elsewhere

Size: A3 (297mm x 420mm)

Edition Run: Limited to 50 prints

Details: Each print is signed and numbered in pencil by Jon Zijlstra.

Paper: Premium 240g Trophée linen paper.

Open Edition

Sizes Available: A4 (210mm x 297mm) and A2 (420mm x 594mm)

Details: Open edition prints are unsigned and produced on high-quality standard art paper.

YOUR CIDER GEORGE.

The pub was alive with the gentle hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional laughter of old friends catching up. The Silver Trout Tavern was a community hub, where locals gathered to share stories, settle debates, and escape the monotony of the day. Its warm yellow walls were adorned with old photographs, a mounted trout, and a menu board advertising chips for $3.00 and steak for $15.00—a menu that hadn’t changed in years.

Behind the bar stood Larry, the landlord with a perpetually amused expression. He polished a pint glass while chatting with George, one of the regulars, who leaned on the counter with his walking stick resting against the bar. “Your cider, George,” Larry said with a grin, sliding the frothy glass across the counter.

“Cheers, Larry,” George replied, lifting the pint with a shaky but determined hand. George had been coming here every Friday since the tavern opened decades ago. To him, this was more than a pub—it was a piece of his life.

At the pool table in the corner, two farmers, Jim and Sam, were locked in a spirited game. Sam, in his work boots and a faded checkered shirt, leaned over the table, lining up his next shot. “You’ve got no chance,” Jim teased, sipping his beer and adjusting his cap. Sam smirked, sinking the ball with a satisfying thunk. “That’s one for me, mate,” he said, chalking his cue.

By the pokies machine near the wall, an older man named Bert sat quietly, feeding a few coins into the slots. The flashing lights reflected off his glasses as he tapped the buttons methodically, not expecting much but enjoying the ritual. A faint cheer escaped his lips when the machine lit up, awarding him a modest win.

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the small windows, casting soft shadows on the carpeted floor. Outside, the rolling hills of the countryside framed the pub, a picturesque backdrop for the comings and goings of its patrons.

Larry looked up as the door swung open, bringing in a fresh gust of air and a young couple who looked slightly out of place. “What’ll it be?” he asked, already pouring a pale ale and a glass of wine, guessing their order before they even spoke. The locals nodded in approval—Larry had a knack for reading people.

Back at the bar, George took a long sip of his cider and sighed contentedly. “You know, Larry,” he began, tapping the bar with his finger, “this place is the heartbeat of the village. Without it, we’d all just be strangers.”

Larry chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s high praise, George, but it’s you lot that make it what it is.”

The evening would roll on with more laughter, more stories, and the occasional burst of excitement when Sam sunk another winning shot or Bert hit another small jackpot. And as the sun dipped below the hills, casting a golden glow over the Silver Trout Tavern, the pub would remain a steadfast reminder of the joy of community and the simple pleasures of a pint shared with friends.