April 2026. Norden. Greater Manchester.
Closing in on a belated completion of Greater Manchester GBG entries now (two Wigan brewery taps left, and who can guess when they’ll be open).
As you’ll know by now I tend to go stir crazy if I don’t get to visit somewhere new every week day hour, so I’m off to posh suburban Rochdale, past Harvesters and Italian bistros, a land where the streets are called “War Office” and “Away Supporters“.
You’re on the edge of the moors here, great walking territory, just a bit too far to walk to the micropubs of Rochdale town centre.
There’s a route of Union Jack flags being flown at half mast to mourn the passing of Rochdale’s automatic promotion hopes,
but inside the Cap & Whippet the balloons (filled with confetti some poor sod will have to clear up later) announce a 21st birthday.
Forty years ago past a 21 year old would already be married, have children, a starter home, a career, a Ford Pop Plus and a massive hangover from a fortnight in Magaluf. What does a 21 year old have now ?
A big party in a micro pub with jars of Swizzels, a stuffed rabbit and a very malty beer from Twisted Mule (NBSS 3.5).
I thought I might have been here before, but that was the Hop & Vine next door, now a tapas bar.
The Cap & Whippet has great bench seating, a quirky interior,
spotless loos,
and the long version of Prince’s “Purple Rain“, the one that 21 year olds loved 40 years ago.
The Guvnor gives me a little history of the place between putting up the deccies,
and then sings the “Whoo…Whoo…Whoo” in Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen“, perfectly.
Stevie Nicks knew a bit about lacings, too.
retiredmartin 