»14th September 2007

Gobowen, Lovecraft & Alcoholics

A couple of weeks ago I went down to Shropshire for my cousin's wedding reception. As usual with family events from my dad's side of the family I spent the weekend asking my parents who I was just talking to, what relation I am to them and when the last time I seen them was (usually along the lines of 'they're your cousin and you last seen them when you were this high'). The trip to Shropshire had a few moments of revelation which I'm sure you're dying to read about.

The countryside ain't for me.

The trip was as close as I've ever come to Wales (whether that is close enough isn't clear at the moment) and as a result it was out in the sticks. The place where we were staying was called Gobowen which makes Heckmondwike sound like a bustling metropolis. There were lots of nice pubs and being near Elsmere, there were also the nice meres themselves. Of course there were also twisting country lanes, a non-existant public transport system, and that creeping feeling that it was suddenly the 1970s all over again (though that was mostly down to the room we had at the pub). I didn't particularly enjoy the sensation of being miles away from anywhere, also the public transport was practically non-existant. We rang one of the three taxis in the village (that's an individual taxi, not a taxi rank) and one was taking the day off, the other was fully booked for the night and clocked off at nine, thankfully we did manage to secure a taxi to the reception. Never before have I felt like such a townie, asking naïvely about which is the closest large city etc. As shit and infuriating as Arriva are, they do at least exist.



The evil that befell Gobowen

The pub we were staying at was the Red Lion in Gobowen. The landlord was a worryingly helpful and friendly fellow by the name of Mike. He was from Liverpool but had the same mannerisms as my uncle who's from Salford. He was eager to help us with whatever we were doing, and managed to book us a taxi. Strangely, the taxi driver was also called Mike. I was immediately reminded of the awesome side-quest in Oblivion in the village of Hackdirt. I was now convinced that the landlord Mike was the leader of the evil subterranean cult of Gobowen. The proximity of the Red Lion to the church yard conjured images of shady undeath by the sound of the lonely tolling of the church bells. Sadly I was unable to test my theory and see where all the trap doors in the village led to.




The Pennines are a wonderful place.

It took three trains to get to Elsmere and three back, however, the train from Manchester to Leeds took a really nice scenic route through the Pennines. I came to the conclusion that hills rule. I had actually missed being able to see terrain features in the day or so that I was away from God's Own County. The travel back from Elsmere was roughly the duration of Metallica Opus 84-88 (and source of countless portmanteaus) Lightning Puppets For All. The greatness of those albums was further reinforced. I also love how heavy metal albums have a knack for making everyday activities seem mysteriously significant.

'Your round, coach.'

I also noticed some amusing signs, streetnames and the like on the way back from Manchester. Probably the best one was for the sports centre which I think was in Mossley though I can't be sure as most of the names of the towns were unfamiliar.

In large bold writing - MOSSLEY SPORTS CENTRE

Below, in only a slightly smaller font - FINE BEERS

I like the way those people think.


Extar, over, out.

TCP/IP, it's fucking me off. Other protocols doing little more. Definitely got worse. Now making me curse. Removing IPX. Will it ever work? Never!