Fuck local sluts in brockholes
Get off the train and it looks like there's a fine, impressive station building to greet you. Head round the front though, and you realise it's all gone. A formerly grand booking hall is now a pub; not even an open pub - it was Fuuck until further notice". It's still very attractive, though, especially as almost all the other stations on the line have lost any semblance of platform buildings. I hope the closure is just temporary. I'm guessing that if the pub fails that old station will be replaced by apartment blocks before you know it. If I'm honest, there's no reason for such a big station anyway. Lytham's a small, pretty town, Fuck local sluts in brockholes it.
It's a bit like St Anne's, but aluts down to earth - there were a few more chain stores. A bit less opulence. Still very pretty though. A chubby homosexual with irritating facial hair got me a baguette, while two waitresses stood behind the counter gossiping and pulling a face every time a customer wanted to be served. It was ln, I suppose, but I couldn't help noticing that my tea cost twice as much as the one in Blackpool. The rain finally gave up so I headed out locaal town. My next station was out in the countryside, so for the first time that day I turned brokholes from the coast.
Brockholse passed through quiet streets, past a playground with a rocket shaped climbing frame and rope swings remember when just Dluts slide was the most exciting thing ever? I've never been in one of these stores, but since it was advertising an "Artisan Cafe" on site and had an attached garden centre, I'm not sure I'd be welcome. Not without a credit check first. How loocal I not? I'm sure Fudk not like this in Lytham though. Passing up the opportunity to find many ways to have a good time, I carried on. Soon I'd left Lytham behind and I was out in the countryside.
I Fuck local sluts in brockholes sluta real fear of walking beside the road in the country. I don't like places where there aren't pavements. Walking in the road always makes me anxious, even if I know I'm following brockholfs country code and I'm perfectly within my rights. Luckily Lancashire County Beockholes had Fucj decency to build a path on one side, but it still felt a bit hairy beside a national speed limit road. In the best case, they slow down a little and move away to give you space. Next are the ones who swing right over to the other side of the road, thereby sputs that you're really fat and they don't want to accidentally clip your chunky thighs. The third brockholed are the wankers.
They're the ones who put their foot down, or stay brockboles up against the side of the road, or just ignore you. They're the ones with attitude, the locl who brociholes listening to a Clarkson audiobook, the ones who are saying Quake with fear at my mighty four-wheeled progress, pathetic biped! Feel my superiority at manhandling this machine with skill and speeding past your limited progress! On the plus side, I was getting exercise and fresh air, so they'll probably die before me. I couldn't really sense where I was in relation to the railway line - it was somewhere over there, as Fuck local sluts in brockholes as I could work out, but I couldn't see any sign of it.
I passed over a canal, and past the local tip, which the council had thoughtfully put right next to a caravan park. Apparently plots for holiday lets were available; can't say I'm surprised. As any schoolboy knows, a group of crows is called a murder. This is one of those facts I learnt when I was little because a I had a fondness for the macabre and b I liked knowing more than everyone else. I watched a murder now, rising and falling over a cropped field; they rested on the ground then, at some unseen signal, all the crows rose up into the air, swirled around one another, then landed a few metres away. It was like watching a very anxious sandstorm.
Fortunately, the crows decided not to attack me. My gory death at their pecking beaks will have to wait for another day. The only wildlife to surprise me that day was a particularly nosy cow, who thrust her face through a gap in the hedge as I approached. They are dumb as a box of hair, but they have a simple charm and unthreatening personality that I'm fond of. My great uncles farmed cows, and I used to like to pat and stroke them. Then eat a steak. I ran my hand of the muzzle of the cow and, predictably, it let me without much protest.
As I said, stupid. Actually that all sounded like I have some weird bovine fetish. My next station was Moss Side; not the dodgy area of Manchester, thankfully. This was a tiny country station by a level crossing, just a platform in the middle of nowhere. I took a seat on the platform and listened to the peace. What actually happened was that Northern Rail decided to interrupt my rural idyll with regular announcements over the loudspeaker. All our stations are covered by CCTV Yes, one of these announcements told me my train was on the way, but apart from that, it was a stream of noise pollution.
In the near dead-silence of an Autumn afternoon, it was all you could hear. The locals must find it incredibly annoying, hour after hour of the same repetitive, booming voices. Unsurprisingly I was the only person to board. I settled in on the Pacer for the trip, choosing a seat right at the back - I was getting off at the next station, anyway. Across from me was a woman who was staring intently out the window. She was sat on one of the "sideways" seats, where you can store your bike, and she seemed to be incapable of closing her legs.
Thankfully her skirt was past her knees or it would have been like a very low budget remake of Basic Instinct. As the train started up she started to sing, quietly, under her breath. At first I just thought she was mouthing, but then I realised I could just about hear her voice under the train noise - it was something about Jesus. I have no objection to people having a faith, and wanting to praise Jesus in their own way. But when a spreadlegged woman with a tight Croydon facelift is murmuring the Lord's name, you start to get unnerved. Especially when the train stopped for one of those random reasons in the middle of nowhere and she fixed her eyes on me.
It's a lovely little station. Again, some care and attention's been devoted to it and some moneyso there's a nice covered set of steps, and a clean and tidy ticket hall. This was the sort of station building that I'd have thought Lytham could get away with, instead of that epic piece of architecture. I got a bit confused on the bridge, trying to work out which way to go. Kirkham was in one direction, and Wesham was in the other; I needed to go into the former, but I ended up on my way to the latter. I wondered if the railway bridge acted as a sort of frontier post, knowing how easily people start hating their neighbours. I could imagine the local schoolkids stood on either side, baiting one another, daring them to cross over the bridge to their half.
If you've watched much of the new series of Doctor Who, you'll know the concept of "fixed points in time". My version was called Salwick. If you know anything about train services or perhaps you've read the story of Robert's visit you'll know Salwick only gets three trains towards Preston a day - one at 7: I absolutely, positively had to get that I'd been quite cocky about catching the train earlier that day. The walk from Kirkham to Salwick didn't seem too arduous. In fact, I even texted Robert and asked if he knew if there were any pubs that way, because it looked like I'd have time to kill I'd forgotten that he hadn't even left the station on his visit, so as if he'd know.
I sauntered through Kirkham. It wasn't just that I had plenty of time; I was also encountering hills for the first time on my trip. Steep hills, that went down one side and up the other. After a day's walking, this wasn't a welcome development I'd done something to my right knee too, and it was letting out a little yelp with every step. It did mean I got to see some of the town's unique features in great detail, like a weaver's loom in a bus shelter. Kirkham was once a big textile centre, and when the last mill closed in they preserved the final loom in the town. A nice gesture, but I can't help wondering if the mill would have lasted longer if they hadn't been using equipment from the early 20th Century the plaque claims it was manufactured after the First World War.
I'm going to apologise in advance to my friend Jennie, who grew up in this bit of the county, but I didn't find Kirkham that impressive. It had been described as a "market town" but to me it seemed like a housing estate with pretensions; the buildings were boring, the shops uninspired, the traffic relentless. I was in no hurry to linger, which was handy because I realised I would have to get a move on to get to Salwick now. I'll give the town bonus points for this old fashioned hardware store, though. I walked out onto the bypass, where I jumped on a regular basis as cars sped by, seeing 50 miles an hour as a suggestion rather than a limit.
I was the only person walking, of course. On and on it went. I was tired and thirsty. In my head I could hear the relentless ticking of a clock, counting down to that I hadn't realised it was so far to walk - there had been a serious miscalculation somewhere along the line. Buses passed me, but I didn't know where they went and I didn't have any cash to buy a ticket anyway.
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Actually that all sounded like I have some weird bovine fetish.
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I have a real fear of walking beside the road in the Fick. I absolutely, positively had to get that I thought I'd be the sole visitor again but there were half a dozen people waiting for the Preston train. The rain finally gave up so I headed out of town. Apparently plots for holiday lets were available; can't say I'm surprised.