I felt a hint of excitement as the train passed old mills and drew into Piccadilly. Manchester was a city that I used to know, having studied there as a student in the late 1990s. The station had changed; it had been thoroughly remodeled. Another change was that some of the derelict Victorian buildings that has always been visible from the station had been renovated. There was, however, one constant that hadn’t changed, and that was the rain: we were met with a consistent dull drizzle.
“Where are you going this weekend?” asked Steve, the chirpy car hire assistant.
“Just heading to the north a bit” I replied, not really wanting to give away the real reason.
“Would you like some extra insurance to cover the cost of the one thousand pound excess? The excess is one thousand pounds which has to be paid if there’s an accident, irrespective of fault. It’s the Easter bank holiday, and there are a lot of people driving about. Shall I put this on for you?”
After Steve had sold me the extra insurance, he gave me a handful of mini chocolate eggs. Each tiny egg had cost me ten pounds each.
Sarah had planned well. She had come armed with a set of AA route finder printouts for each stage of our first trip. Within fifteen minutes of picking up our hire car, she had navigated our way through the A57 and onto the M602. Our route was pretty simple: find the Manchester orbital motorway, find the M62 which heads towards Preston, and then join the A6 heading north.
“Have you been to Preston? What is it famous for?” Sarah asked, noticing the motorway sign.
“A nuclear research establishment.”
“You been there?”
“Just once.”
“You’ve been to a nuclear research establishment?!”
“No, sorry… to Preston, not the nuclear research establishment in Preston”.
I didn’t really want to walk about Preston; I was more interested in getting to Adlington, but I did once receive a postcard of Preston bus station from an ex-girlfriend. The bus station is a brutalist concrete monstrosity which is now a listed building.
“This is the countryside!” said Sarah, looking out of the window.
She was right; we had turned off the motorway and could see fields. The road started to gently undulate and the Manchester rain had eased up.
Adlington sits between the village of Blackrod and the town of Chorley. Further south was the town of Bolton. Our destination was The White Bear Inn which was located on the A6. It was easy to find; I pulled up, parked and we wandered over to the entrance to check in. It was the kind of pub that I liked: traditional, simple and without any pretense.
Our room was the second smallest bed and breakfast room I had ever stopped in (the smallest being a room in Milton Keynes which had been converted from a cupboard); it had purple satin sheets, and a view of a deserted car park and a set of overflowing bins.
With our bags deposited and the hire car safely parked, we began to explore what Adlington had to offer. We crossed the road, passed a line of terrace houses, and immediately found ourselves on the outskirts of the town. We were opposite what appeared to be a large factory: Pincroft Dyeing and Printing Co. I later discovered that its website proudly declaimed that it was “one of the most modern bleaching, dyeing, printing and finishing facilities in the world.” It also said that millions of Euros had been invested into state of the art machinery.
Something caught Sarah’s eye. It was a street sign close to the entrance of the factory with the words: “Bolton, a great place to shop.” The letters for the word ‘great’ had been removed.
We paused, looked around, and started to make our way back into the town, via Helen’s shop which sold motorcycle clothing, and specialised in making custom leatherwear for bikers.
“What is there to do in Adlington?” I asked Helen.
“There’s not much around here, especially on a bank holiday. You could go shopping if you like doing that kind of thing. There’s the Macron Stadium, which isn’t too far. It’s up by the Middlebrook retail park, if you know that? It’s just down the road. Or, you could go shopping in Bolton.” Sarah and I looked at each other. Neither of us liked shopping. “There’s some pubs down that end of town, but some of them have been closed now. There’s a place called Rivington which is a couple of miles away; it’s a place where bikers go”
Sarah started to ask questions about Rivington, but I wasn’t as keen; I was impatient: we were in Adlington to discover what Adlington has to offer - we were not there to discover places that were better or more attractive than Adlington. I soon realised that my dogmatism and mild grumpiness could be blamed on the weather; if Adlington people visit Rivington, then we too must go to Rivington.
We said goodbye to Helen and wandered up the road and past our B&B, and soon discovered a picturesque marina. Row upon row of narrow boat and barge sat silently next to each other. The only sign of occupation was the smell of wood smoke coming from a fire on one of the boats.
I have never personally seen the attraction of a narrow boat, but that might be down to the fact that I can’t swim. My mate Dave nearly bought one, but then he realised he would mostly be spending a lot of his time living in Milton Keynes. Living in a narrow board in Milton Keynes in the middle of winter sounded like the very definition of 'miserable'.
As we wandered around, it started to rain yet again. We opened and closed doors and returned to the road and found shelter in one of Adlington’s pubs: The Bridge Inn.
“That’s what we’re doing tonight” Sarah pointed to a sign: Steve’s Karaoke.
“Is the karaoke on tonight?” I asked the landlady. The pub had gone very quiet. All seven of the local drinkers were looking at us both. We ordered a couple of half pints, and went to find a seat. We had the whole wing of the pub to ourselves.
“So, what do you think?” asked Sarah.
“What, of Adlington?”
“Yes”
“Well, it’s alright, isn’t it?”
By the time we left, The Bridge Inn had a single drinker. He eyed us up suspiciously as we said goodbye to the landlady.
It was time to explore other end of the town. We walked past the railway station and continued along the road. A café was closed, but a sweet shop called ‘The Grubber’ was open. We went inside. It was an old fashioned sweet shop, with jars of sweets that sat on high shelving, away from troublesome children. There was a simple serving counter with a large set of scales. I needed to buy something, but was paralysed by choice: should it be sherbet pips, or some of those menthol sweets? How about some mints? I made a choice: aniseed balls. I hadn’t had aniseed balls for years. I wondered whether they still tasted the same.
I asked the owner, Liz, what there was to do in Adlington. She appeared to be confused and asked us what we were doing there. We said we had just picked Adlington from a list of place names.
“You’ve come from London all the way to Adlington?!” Liz was incredulous. “What part of London?” she asked; the tables were turned: the questioner was now being questioned. Liz used to live in London for a while, living in the east end and working in the middle of the city.
Liz gave us some tips: “Head up the road, there’s a pub called the ‘Top Spinners’. If you continue up the hill, you’ll find another pub called the Bay Horse Inn, which serves good food. Actually, the walk up the hill is a bit like a tradition.” Liz gave us a raffle ticket, and told us to check the shop website to see if we win: the prize was ten pounds worth of sweets; it struck me as a great marketing idea.
We found the Bay Horse Inn, and then continued to wander to the outskirts of the town until our eyes caught a glimpse of another sign. It read: Beer Festival – please park carefully! The festival appeared to be in the next village, and the sign seemed to be entirely aimed at the population of Adlington.
We followed the sign and wandered onto a narrow country road, with no pavements, situated amidst rolling hills. The nearby fields were an unfamiliar green due to the ever present rain. In the distance we could see some kind of gazebo, which we figured was the festival.
The gazebo was accompanied by a huge tent that was set in the gardens of a packed pub, the Yew Tree Inn. New drinkers were arriving, and others were leaving, to visit a pair of portaloos that had been installed in a discrete part of the car park. The tent was humid and noisy; drinkers were holding plastic pint glasses. Kids were standing or sitting, appearing visibly baffled at the weird things that adults choose to do.
“What would you like?” I asked Sarah, after giving her a beer menu.
“I’ll have Fanny’s Bramble”
Armed with drinks (I had opted for the Dark Mild), we wandered around for a place to sit before choosing to loiter at table that had a good view of the exit; a place where we could watch all the comings and goings.
“You should have seen the advert!” said a middle aged woman, who was drinking a coke. “They said it was like an Indian Tee Pee and there would be some live music! It’s nothing like an Indian Tee Pee, and that’s not live music!”
“It was recorded live…” I said, trying to be witty and clever.
We were chatting to Dee, Rebecca and Emma.
“You mean, you’ve come all the way to London to Adlington? What part of London?”
Emma was Rebecca's daughter; she may have also been drinking Fanny’s Bramble. They had all travelled to the beer festival from Horwich, a village that was just down the road from Rivington. Emma used to be a student in London but was now studying at Newcastle University and had returned home for the Easter holidays. Being all thoroughly middle class we chatted about shocking house prices and the challenges of living in a big city.
By the time we had finished our drinks, it had started to rain again. It was time to go; we didn’t want to be lurching about on an unfamiliar road in the darkness dodging drunk drivers. Besides, we needed to get something to eat. The Bay Horse Inn was still packed, and didn’t appear to be serving any food, so we continued to The Retreat, which Liz had recommended.
The Retreat was an impressive looking restaurant. Its defining feature was that it was in a converted church. The inside was cavernous, and we were ushered to a table that sat on a balcony, overlooking an expansive ground flood dining area. It also had the biggest menu I have ever seen. It had everything: posh meals, fish and chips, and an impressive choice of pizzas. Plus, it was busy. This was clearly the place to visit for a night out. We were surrounded by families and young couples on dates. Although it was perfectly pleasant, I couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable; it felt as if it was trying too hard to be too upmarket.
It was time for some entertainment. We had a choice: karaoke, or a visit to The Top Spinners to hear a singer called Linda Jennings who had been on the TV talent show, The Voice. We opted for the singer.
Linda J, as she was known, was clearly the toast of the town, and had secured a regular Saturday night spot that the Spinners. It was packed, hot, and noisy; the polar opposite of The Bridge; all seats to witness the talent that was Linda J were taken, so we beat a path to the opposite end of the pub that was mercifully quiet. As Linda J belted out covers, Sarah and I chatted. Half way through our pints, a torso appeared within our part of the pub.
“I told you to move away from her once, haven’t I?! I’ve told you once, and you didn’t do it!”
There was some pushing; two lads were getting involved in what could be loosely described as a fracas; it appeared that Linda J wasn’t the only entertainment for the night. The landlord made his way to the other side of the bar, there was more shouting, followed by opening and closing of doors. The troublemaker was asked to leave. Linda J, the consummate professional, continued to sing.
“Do you want to go to karaoke?” asked Sarah.
I shook my head. Adlington had tired me out. The rain, northern hills, and Dark Mild had all taken their toll. Had I been ten years younger I might have been up for it. As it happened, I had already noted down a list of songs I could have asked for: Day Dream Believer by the Monkees, Park Life by Blur and Sit Down by James. I do enjoy a karaoke session, but I could barely think.
We wandered back through empty streets to The White Bear Inn, catching a glimpse of another Adlington landmark: St Paul’s Church. We had both expected The Bear to be filled with raucous drinkers, but it was surprisingly quiet. A few drinkers were quietly chatting; others were watching the television. We slipped into the accommodation quarters, unnoticed.
“What do you think? Would you like to move to Adlington?” asked Sarah.
I thought for a moment.
“I’ll have to see what Batley is like first” I replied.
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