retiredmartin

June 2025. Gathurst. Greater Manchester.

20 minutes walk back to Gathurst Station from my final Mancunian GBG tick of the year, with half an hour to kill before off-peak fares kicked in again at 18:30. Is it worth hanging about in Gathurst to save £3.75 ?

Well, obviously, £3.75 is a pint around Wigan (London – a third of a pint), so I consult Chat GPT which directs me to the viaduct over the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

“Canal life with moorland glimpses” it gushes, with thundering M6 thrown in free.

Actually, the thundering comes from the soles of joggers along the footpath, which rather limits my opportunity for an incongruous wee, forcing me to seek out the station bar.

I presume those joggers have run from Wigan Pier, which I’ve helpfully marked bottom right on the map for you.

If only Eric Arthur Blair had read my blog back then he’d have been able to find that pier. Instead Orwell had to content himself with an afternoon at Robin Park watching Wigan Athletic, whose star striker Bert “Bones” Bradshaw still props up the bar of the Gathurst Station* bar.

“He’s called Vincent” shouts the landlady.

“Van Gogh ?”

“Price”

It’s a simple little place, open from 5, with no cask but Cruzcampo, though I only want a coke, which forces a rather desperate Untappd check-in (top).

She charges me £1.30 for a can; it would cost more in the Coop.

Coop sounds a bit like Coope, and an hour later I was back at Piccadilly for a gig at the Rat & Pigeon (skipped the beer, too warm), yards from Matt’s flat, watching Anastasia Coope do her singular stuff.

£11 to watch Anastasia (it was free in Leeds the night before, as Orwell knows life is tougher there),

and at the end she sells me a nice self-designed T-shirt for £15.

Stuff your “Glasto”.

*The only other passenger was a lady who told me she had fallen asleep and missed her Wigan stop, and had never been to Gathurst before.