89 Roe St – tucked into the side of the sprawling St John’s Centre car park and a cosily withdrawn corner of the Royal Court Theatre.
The New Penny Farthing.
A name which instantly evokes arcane loose change and strange bicycles.
Each time as I pass I’m drawn in, yet never enter.
Amazed by the array of ever changing signage, happy hours abound.
It’s a happy house, we’re happy here.
A dark drinking den awaits within, the daytime drinker abides, imbibing.
Stay new.
The dissipated filling, in an Aldi and Tesco sandwich, a flat roofed, concrete and brick sixties shopping development, a precinct.
Small towns typically comprise of several retail developments, of various vintages, chasing diminishing returns, in ever expanding rectangles.
Stalybridge is no exception, once a bustling mill town, it sought salvation in a hedonistic mini-break by the River Tame, party industry.
Stalyvegas.
The bright lights of the society of the spectacle, now extinguished, burnt brightly in Bar Liquid, Club Rififi, H2O and Amber Lounge.
Walking the streets today, a meagre spread of shoppers, hardened daytime drinkers and lost souls.
Bids were made for a Portas Pilot, Mary contrarily resisted.
The Northern Powerhouse hits the buffers.
The Buffet prevails.
Tucked away in an arcade, far from Arcadian – not far from Baz’s Off Licence.
The launderette.
Yet another testament to the partial persistence of industrial technology.
No Longer in Use.
A happy hotch-potch of signs, surfaces and sixties design.
Informal formica, stripped bare strip lighting, wobbly laminate walls.
Watch and wait, whilst the World and your washing whirl.
Ups ‘n’ Downs, it’s had its share of ups and downs.
Quite literally – the former Wellington Inn has an upside facing onto the busy A6 Wellington Road, and a downside opening onto Mersey Square.
Its fortunes similarly something of a rollercoaster ride, from busy town centre pub, to edgy pseudo-club, populated by late night uniformed bus drivers, swaying on the metre square dance floor.
Latterly something of a disco party bus, going nowhere fast.
Known variously as Glitz, Bentley’s and the Bees Knees.
Finally, partial occupation by a forlorn pound shop – defying economic trends by closing.
An architectural curiosity and a blank faced, gap toothed greeting to the Town’s visitors, there is talk of conversion to flats under the council’s stewardship.
It seems like up to me.
Confusion
Fusion
Confusion
Imagine
A single storey brick built street corner boozer, it’s not so hard to do.
It’s Sheffield let’s call it the Whetstone, how appropriate.
Bored?
How about the Moorfoot Tavern?
Sounds classy, that’ll do.
Well it did until it didn’t, somehow it migrates south, then west.
Paris Texas – how about Rome Mexico Yorkshire?
El Paso it is then –
There there are 98 stops on the 192 route, between Manchester and Hazel Grove.
– I know because I walked them all.
Sunday morning roads relatively free of traffic.
Some stops peopled some not.
Zigzagging the A6 to record a consistent sequence.
The bus stops here.
127 Dale Street, corner of North Street, just by the Ship and Mitre, across from the Queensway Tunnel entrance?
Yes that’s the one, Liverpool’s most remarkable, least remarked upon building.
So clean, so modern, so new, a delightful grid of materials, glass, steel, polished marble, brick and patinated beaten metal.
Stand back and wonder, move in and sigh with delight.
As I went about my snappy business, I was approached by a local – Mark.
Surprised by my curiously, up close, slow scrutiny of the building, he went on to explain that he was familiar with the architect Derek Jones who had worked on the design for Ormrod and Partners in 1964.
Formerly home to Higson’s Brewery offices, now housing the Merseyside Museums administration and design teams, the exterior is largely intact.
So am I.
Go take a look.
I want it.
Historic England want it.
Hopefully you and the people of Sheffield want it,
– anyway it’s listed.
http://www.historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1393220
“1964 by George S Hay, Chief Architect for CWS, with interior design by Stanley Layland, interior designer for CWS. Reinforced concrete with Blue Pearl granite tiles and veneers, grey granite tiles and veneers, buff granite blocks, glass, and brick.”
The Liberal Democrat Council objected, saying
“It could be a major barrier to regenerating Castlegate.”
There is now the possibility of redevelopment as a creative hub.
It was a Co-op on the grandest of scales.
It has it all, public art, monolithic proportions and finish, bags of detail and scale in abundance. A fascinating building to explore and certainly one that fills my little heart with joy in superabundance
A building of period distinction, it deserves its preservation.
We do not require another patch of steel and wilfully wayward clad nowheresville non- architecture, replete with aspirational retail agogo.
Go see it soon!
On Lower Hillgate, almost next door to where it used to be, there stands The Tudor Café.
Almost where it has almost always stood.
Other businesses have come and gone, happily it prevails.
The cheapest tastiest grub in town.
An interior festooned with tea towels.
Tables polka dotted, teas hot.
Signs inside and out, some of them inside out.
Greetings from Gdansk.
Don’t forget to forget.
Big is not large, not small.
This is a dirty blue, washed-out pale yellow, Alice in Wonderland un-wonderful land.
Time will not stand still – you’re in a spin, oh what a spin that you’re in.
Walk in, wash and wish.
Mid blue linoleum tiles, patched here there.
And everywhere.
Signs
Everywhere.
In an uncertain universe, you can almost always rely on the launderette, to guide you on life’s soapy journey, through a complex series of immutable do’s and don’ts, arrows, slots, buttons and bows.
Giant is the new big is the new large.
I feel so small.
Standing alone in an unattended laundrette can be a chilling experience, a heightened state of awareness abounds, accentuating that all pervasive absence of presence.
The unseen hand, that write the notes, that speak to you in emphatic hurried caps, pinned or taped precisely on the walls.
The ghosts of clothes, still warm, now gone.
A Proust defying amalgam of aromas, that almost fills the air.
Just you and a series of slots, demotic instructions, care worn utilitarian surfaces and time.
Wash Inn get out.
I wandered aimless in Exmouth, finding myself on Exeter Road outside:
The Wool Shop
Bewitched
By arcane sun-faded hand written signs.
Seemingly ancient undergarments.
Wool, wool, wool.
Early morning on the A30 out of Okehampton and something is beginning to stir.
Two inscrutable Romanians and a curious garrulous traveller are going about their respective business.
They – filling buckets and arranging a complex array of cleaning fluids.
Me – just mooching with a compact camera.
Initially expressing an understandable resistance to my snappy ways, their consent was granted, following a series of complex hand gestures, smiles, and an open and honest request.
Moments later my job was done and theirs had just begun.
Wash and go!
Should you, as I did wander down Northdown Road, Cliftonville, you will chance upon Pottons at 262.
By now however, ingress is more than somewhat inhibited.
It’s closed.
The most exciting and extant period fascia, once gave way to oak fittings and fixtures festooned with all manner of menswear, exotic and plain accoutrements, now inaccessible.
It’s gone.
A few sad remnants were on sale, administered in their final days by Lorraine, employed for 35 years in a family business, whose trade had once included made to measure, fine millinery and quality accessories for the discerning gent around town.
No more.
There is a sign.
An Illuminated sign.
There are signs.
Handwritten signs – notices, instructions, scribbled hurriedly, underlined, highlighted, boxed for emphasis.
Taped up.
There are machines, top loaders, best left half empty.
Terrazzo floor, leatherette banquette.
Out of disorder comes out of order.
Close the door when you leave
Somewhere at the edge of the World ice cream vans go to die, I know I saw them from the train back from Brighton, I just had to go and have a look. I was received warmly by the busy proprietors going busily about their business, readying the working vans for their working day on the coast. It seems they break the invalids up for spares keeping the ageing vehicles on the road for another season – dispensing joy to jolly girls and boys in cornet, tub and lolly form. There is however something inevitably heartbreakingly poignant, seeing the signage fade, in the southern sun, as brambles weave in and out of open window, steering wheel, wheel arch and fridge. Ask not for whom the chimes chime. They chime for you. Nevermore.
Cycling along Curzon Road one sunny Sunday afternoon, I found to my surprise, facing me across the Whiteacre Road junction.
– An empty yet extant launderette.
One lone drier tumbling, lonely – an absence of presence, save myself.
The usual spartan interior almost unkempt, enlivened by four legged, almost alien, ovalish plastic laundry baskets. A sunlit shimmer of brushed steel surfaces, low lit and deeply shadowed linoleum tiles.
Under the illuminating hum of bare fluorescent tubes.
I snapped and exited, unwashed.
Great!
Friday afternoon, clouds gather along a long walk from the Leeds city centre, following an unforgivingly long dual carriageway, not without its hard won charm, we reached the Garden Gate.
A Tetley Heritage pub the most beautiful in Yorkshire, clad in warm glazed ceramics of the highest decorative order, a terrazzo porch and open door welcomes the weary walker.
Ready for a pint?
Leeds Pale Ale £2.60 a pop and a fine drop it is too, why not stay and have another!
The interior arrangement of rooms cluster around a fine tiled bar, linked by corridors, clad in curved wood and large etched windows, lit with the original fittings – all in an intoxicating Nouveau style.
The cellar is lined in heavy glazed white brick and retains its rugby league history with extant showers and physio room, former home of the Garden Gate ARLFC – it says so on the first aid kit.
A thinned bar of green soap rests on the side of the long-dry bath.
The staff and customers were warm, chatty and informative – my thanks for their generous hospitality.
Its worth the walk.
My thanks to Ms. Natalie Ainscough for her cheery company, innate sense of direction and can do attitude.
http://www.gardengateleeds.co.uk
Wandering amiably down Whalley Old Road towards Blackburn one warm sunny day today, I came upon yet another launderette.
Somehow, somewhat frozen in time.
Front window cracked, but just about holding together, signage almost intact, machines formerly fully functioning – flagging, fluorescent tubes softly flickering, unguarded against the wood chip.
Patterned formica surfaces care worn and faded from use and abuse.
Washing done at home takes longer to dry (and costs you more).
You have been warned.
Modern Mooch 