1 March 2020
Into Lancashire, my next big target for GBG completion.
Mind, Whitworth looks like it’s in Rochdale to me. “Rochdale IS in Lancashire” screams Old Mudgie. It was probably in Yorkshire once.
Yes, this is the land of straggly villages along the A671 on the way to Rossendale. It’s a untidy picture in a beautiful frame, full of takeaways (which are normally shut), keg pubs and potholes.
I can’t remember the last time I stopped here, but I picked a good day to do the Band Club, with its evening only openings every day except Sundays.
This is the Rochdale of weaving and mining, of brass bands and rag puddings.
I entered the Club (no card checks) to a roar, two rooms celebrating/commiserating an equaliser for the Stretford Rags at Goodison Park. I thought it’d be Burnley fans round here.
The odd stare tell me I’m in the way of the screen so I duck.
The main bar had that classic curved seating that defines “club”.
It’s won lots of awards by offering LocAles, so obviously I go for the Banks’s, which was a cool, foamy NBSS 3, possibly 3.5 I decide later.
Lacings never lie.
But Baylis & Harding handwash (just add alcohol) does.
It’s a classy club, but not posh.
Whitworth doesn’t look at all posh, but I notice the sign for “Conservation Area” and head up some cobbled streets that could be Dobcross.
Up to a smart pub with a blue plaque and mums with children called Gemima and Toby (probably).
I keep walking, up to St. Bartholomews, a slippery path I wouldn’t fancy doing if we ever do get a Winter.
Up to the stocks reserved for visiting pub tickers on their 6th pint.
Magic. You find it when you look.