retiredmartin

January 2024. Accrington.

A night in Preston, but still 5 hours till our gig. Exactly the wrong amount of time, really.

Despite the station’s perfect positioning, there’s insufficient time to reach a place with more than a lone pub to tick (that would be Carlisle or Glasgow). It’s too late to get to a football match. And it’s a dreich day, cold and drizzly now Blackpool Jane has departed, so a walk to Bamber Bridge doesn’t appeal.

With the Art Gallery closed, Mrs RM ends up in Marks & Spencer’s underwear department.

I head for Accrington. Someone has to.

There’s a new pub here, the Arden, and I have dreams of ticking Darwen on the way back too, though that requires some luck with connections that you never get these days.

Accrington welcomes me with open arms, and a fancy vending machine.

There’s hills to the east, and mill shops, but it’s raining so I focus on the bustling centre.

Nice bit of artwork by the Town Hall,

and a memorial to the Spinning Jenny. Don’t get that much industrial heritage in Wimbledon.

My attempt to entice Mrs RM to join me in Accrington had floundered at the 1st hurdle.

“What’s there to actually DO there, then ?“.

“Well, you can buy samosas in the market“. She opted for Preston’s M & S.

Accrington wasn’t buzzing, but it wasn’t exactly heaving on my last visit pre-Covid, and there’s still small joys to be had.

Another year without the Brooks Club in the GBG, I see.

Perhaps only the Hyndburn towns can so successfully combine tanning and chimney sweeping businesses in 2024.

Ah, top of town (are we actually in Baxenden ?), here’s my pub.

Neat, tidy, warm, cheery, an electronic sign saying “No Finger Pricks” (more of this, please),

and a perfect looking pint for £3.50.

I take the table with the hook I don’t actually need,

and watch a gripping contest unfold on the pool table.

A cutting edge soundtrack accompanies the sporting drama,

but the only score I’m keeping is the NBSS for this foamy joy (3.5).

I drop a pound coin while tidying up my pockets; it rolls all the way to Oswaldthistle. That quid will buy me a Holland’s pie; I rush to rescue it.