retiredmartin

December 2025. Todmorden.

“Look after yourself” says the Old Boy in the Fox with whom I’ve bonded over 5 minutes of dissing trad media, which says a lot about the joy of pubs.

My state of mind will depend largely on whether Nan Moor’s is open. Unexpectedly closed half an hour ago, I search Instagram for clues.

Aha !

Open today from 12 ? Hang on. When is “today” ?. Oh, today was yesterday.

It’s all mild peril, as Nan Moor’s is open when I return at 2. And it’s a gem.

The Fox is quite a spacious, three-roomed bar. In contrast, Nan’s is a mini-micro, full of plants and art and shopping bags.

It’s the sort of cluttered room you want in a pub, but which Mrs RM would never tolerate at home.

Perhaps the best soundtrack of the year, from early Cure to deep cut Joy Division to the Velvets, at perfect volume (though not for Shazam).

Like Hebden, a bit of a political edge; you might think you’re in that similarly vibrant Black Cat in student Liverpool.

I used to complain about “too many pumps”, but there’s less of that these days in craft-led bars like Nan’s, and I reckon a 4.5% IPA and a 9.5% Impy Stout is a perfect line-up.

That Anthology is cool and chewy, and I realise I’m throwing out NBSS 4.5s like Luke Littler knocks out 170s at the end of the year.

A pint in 20 minutes should be it, but I get chatting to two Everton fans from Chester and Bradford, on their way to Burnley. We bond over a love of Jack Grealish, mutual dislike of the other Liverpool side, and the Corn Dolly.

And I stay for a can of Pastore (they’re from Waterbeach, you know),

matched with a giant bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. Perfect beer/food matching.

Wonderful. But the homebound train approaches, just time to scour the town for puns,

and a sprinkling of kindness.