Blimey. What a month.
Almost constantly travelling, pinking in counties as I go.
Some absolute classic pubs to look back on, though oddly remembering these only makes things worse now.
The Black Horse in Preston was as gorgeous and irreverent as ever,
and the Ship in Seahouses was full of chatty southerners (well, Yorkies) drinking Amstel.
And not a substantial meal in sight ! Except for Baa Baa Toure’s haddock.
We helped Matt escape Salford for Manchester, becoming over-acquainted with bright yellow storage units in the process.
Aiding Matt fill his new abode with Ikea’s finest flatpacks led to an hour in Ashton-under-Lyne’s scariest shop, but at least I enjoyed the curry of the year at Lily’s over the road.
Yes, the North had the best pubs, the best beer and the best food. But soon, it would all be beyond us, as the return of schoolchildren and undergrads did for Covid rates what pubs and restaurants had failed to do.
Oh, nearly forgot. We also found time to choose a house, near this classic.
As you can tell from the hill, we were about to become Northerners.