Have mask, will travel. Border crossings, on a damp and languid day.
Heading once more back to Manchester by train, having started a new book, Water Shall Refuse Them, along the way. The author, this being her debut novel, has been getting comparisons to Shirley Jackson and, although I’m only fifty or so pages into it, the protagonist does have a bit of Merricat about her.
Rochdale, the penultimate stop on my journey, in the dark, wet afternoon never looked so bleak.
The next few weeks are looking bleak, too. With rising figures, Rochdale is on the brink of following Leicester into a possible new lockdown. Though I don’t live in the town, my own town comes under the borough of Rochdale, and another lockdown is the last thing that any of us want.
After leaving the train, I caught a bus outside of this Rochdale Road pub, The Marble Arch, established in the Ripper year: 1888.
A renowned pub that brews its own beer, it has been some years since I’ve been in there. Possibly over twenty.
Maybe I should have called in for a pint, today, while I still can.