Having stood my Fuggle Bunny take-outs safely in the Aygo, ensuring they’d spill and leave it smelling of Russian Stout this morning, I took a short walk east.
Ooh, a bridge.
Look, a little country park.
Wow, I’m in Killamarsh aka Chinewoldmaresc, which sounds like a movie theatre chain.
In vain I checked my South Yorkshire GBG list to see if I’d been here before; it certainly felt a big enough town to have graced the Guide.
Suddenly, everything turned black and white;
I checked Wikipedia for facts on Kellamarsh, and nearly fainted.
Derbyshire. As in that place where the police actually enforce the Covid rules.
Yes, I’d stumbled over the county line. In the Netflix series I’m up to Series 3 on, crossing the border will get you beheaded or worse; cross from Yorkshire into Deryshire and expect a Daily Mail appearance (been there, done that).
I composed myself, realised the police were on the other side of the A61, and admired the Steelmelters.
Another classic visited by Sheffield Hatter, who had enough time to snap it in 2014 but somehow spurned its keg charms. And those of the Midland.
I heard a police siren. Had they been tracing my movements ? I raced back to the dashed line separating the two counties, and made my escape.