retiredmartin

June 2026. Bradford.

You left us outside the George & Dragon in Apperley Bridge, where a couple of pedestrians had just used the horsey crossing rather than the human one in contravention of some ancient by-law or other,

which was possibly the most exciting part of the next 3 hours along the Leeds-Liverpool canal.

But at 61 I don’t crave excitement, a pint of Bass Three Swords and a cute donkey will do me fine.

Besides, the purpose of this Camino was too find a gentler England, one of folk content with pottering around on the water, of teenagers fishing with their dads, of village cricket, of sweaty joggers.

An England free of rage bait, except when a cyclist rings their bell too late, or too soon, and “communities” who guide visitors to their micropubs with hand drawn maps.

An hour in, we realised we’d not even reached the 10 mile mark yet, but I guess the canal won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

We come agonisingly close to Esholt’s Woolpack; Mum would have been delighted to see the pics of the original Emmerdale pub,

but sadly we can’t swim across the Aire so we stick to the shade of the glades and the lily ponds instead.

And then we’re at the industrial estates of Shipley, and a decision needs to be taken.

I wanted a detour to Baildon’s classic Junction, but Mrs RM insists you can’t ignore a brewery tap that’s actually on the Camino path,

and of course she’s right, as Saltaire’s tap bursts with life, if not actual sassiness.

Both the Citra and the Blonde and cool and crisp (3.5/4), and beg the question of why the Tap has never graced the GBG. But they’re so busy I doubt they care; the trade is here as much for the cider and the Cyndi (Lauper) as the cask.

“Mum’s got six (6) years till she’s classed as old”, says seven (7) year old Emily* on the next table.

I’ll leave you to guess how old Emily’s mum is.

*_{Names have been guessed.}