More ten minute posts penned in Starbucks on the A34.
On the Monday I awoke in Huddersfield (actually Ivy Green, and we know how geography matters) with a decision to make.
How best to add a tick to a day in Manchester with a few pints with Yanks and a curry with Matt?
Over Stotts porridge and a flat white intenso in Coffee Boy, I decided on Rochdale.
Huddersfield is an attractive place to base Northern trips around, the £28 guest house compensating for the trains.
The town looked its best in the morning.
My head and liver weren’t up to Day 3 of the Great Southworth Sozzle, but they had more than adequate company from assorted Mudges and Quosh.
Arriving at Victoria at 11.40, I thought a quick half in the Hare and Hounds would be sociable, and I could ensure Mudgie wasn’t getting the Spanish inquisition from Dave.
NB Always remember to get the guard to allow you to break your journey, kids, or the machine will nab your ticket.
They weren’t there, scuppered by Sir Humphrey and his duff opening hours at Sinclairs or something.
Still, you try and resist the lure of the H and H at lunchtime.
And there is no such thing as a half pint of Holt Bitter.
Immaculate pub, immaculate pint, questionable music from Simply Red and Heatwave.
The gang turned up, the conversation turned to twin rooms and returned pints.
I wonder if anyone has ever taken a pint back in the Hare & Hounds?