An estate agent might still describe this a “Manchester city centre apartment, including private balcony, with intimate views of the River Medlock below”. The reality is that this building has been swathed in scaffolding for months now (certainly since at least early February, as this pic proves), and the Medlock is a litter-speckled concrete drainage channel at this point. I doubt those stairs have much purpose in existence, either.
At about 3.30am in the morning I was awoken by a distant but continuously ringing alarm down in town, and a sense that I could smell smoke, although both these things only reached the semi-concscious level of awareness. Having convinced myself that if there was smoke, it was external to our place, I drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, it became more apparent where all this was coming from: the La Perla restaurant in town burned down overnight. This morning they were still dousing the smouldering timbers, the town cordoned off as I walked past on my way to the station — so this was the nearest I could get for this bit of reportage. No one was hurt, but I imagine there are a number of people who today are extremely upset.
The ‘West Riding’ bar on Dewsbury station ranks up there with the world’s great railway station refreshment rooms. It’s quite as good as Stalybridge’s, and that’s high praise indeed. The random scattering of stuff around it, inside and out, seems natural rather than the affectations of an interior designer. It’s been a while since this piano made any music, but it remains interesting in different ways.
It is, perhaps, a little early to be taking a nap, but it was Sunday, after all. We’ve all been there.
Bacup Borough FC’s ground, the Brian Boys West View Stadium, is located at about 280m/920 feet above sea level. Which, OK, is not very high by the standards of some countries but for Britain it’s elevated: in fact this is one of the highest football grounds in the country. So even at the end of July it wasn’t exactly tropical. The goalie ponders play while the moorland ponders dumping some more rain on all participants and spectators.
On 29th July 2012, ten years ago, I was obliged to leave the rustic yet comfortable surroundings of the Black Sail hut and haul myself over Great Gable, a substantial lump of rock, in what remains the grimmest weather conditions I have encountered on any of my Lakeland walks. As today’s trip was the 200th of those — a pleasing milestone to reach — it was also pleasing that the weather was a damn sight better. (See my other blog for the full details.)
Wandope wasn’t one of the two Wainwrights bagged on the day, but this long-distance shot of its summit was the picture that pleased me the most: a case of it turning out just as was intended. The slopes in the background are those of the High Stile range, over Buttermere.
The underbelly of the Mancunian Way isn’t the most glamorous spot in the city, but somehow this combination of graffiti and beer bottles looks relaxing.
Ben gets some Him Time, and seems thoroughly contented by the experience. As the amount of white around his muzzle attests, he’s an old man, and at some later point in our own lives I guess we’ll all crave this kind of attention.
Summer at uni, a time to get renovations done to buildings (like the Ellen Wilkinson) which sorely need it. A scaffold and a red tool box set off the view from up on the third floor landing. It would be nice if I was on a proper summer break by now, but not yet: ten days to go.
Perhaps, like this wasp, we are all trapped, aware of the world beyond the glass but frustratingly unable to reach it. But perhaps, again like this particular insect, there is a way out (undepicted here) at the bottom that we just haven’t found yet, we just need to change direction.
Being 42 