Spent some time in Nantwich, Cheshire, a week or so ago. Fine little town, a proud Republican stronghold back in Civil War days. Still lots of timber framed buildings like this independent book shop and coffee-house:
And in St Mary’s a four-star, Grade 1 listed, church:
There’s a charming little museum, too, where I photographed this photograph:
Went on a mini-pub crawl one evening – such a choice – ended up in the fine old Black Lion, on Welsh Row, happily on the night of the Norfolk Mountain Rescue Team‘s Americana session – a session of 8 years standing – a repertoire including some Credence and that break-neck rendition of My grandfather’s clock that someone recorded a few years ago. And while we’re talking of pubs, the best pub fish cake I’ve ever had (was it smoked haddock?), topped with a perfect poached egg, surrounded by ‘heritage’ tomatoes and some green stuff with an enchanting herbal dressing, in the Dysart Arms in Bunbury (a place I’d always thought was fictional).
Canal strolls, taking in where the road has to be lifted for the boats to get through on the Llangollen. Shame no boats came along:
Another day, a climb up to Beeston Castle, from where you can see for miles and miles, the distinct ellipse of the Jodrell Bank telescope clear as a bell:
Why the salt title for this piece? Nantwich is a town, figuratively and literally, built on salt and the salt industry, and it gives me an excuse to allude to and air this lovely piece of work from Ron Sexsmith, from – can it really be so long ago – 2002?