Up on the hills above the village my parents live in is the Horse and Jockey Pub. Back when I was younger I remember it being open, then it closed and was boarded up. A few years ago it burnt down, and has been left like this ever since. It’s in a desolate part of the country, on the A62 just as you cross the border into Lancashire (although it didn’t used to be).
I took this photo in suitably dire conditions; it was throwing it down, windy and the sky had that awful flat grey look to it that makes most people put their cameras away and go back home. Standing there, clasping a rapidly unfolding umbrella in one hand, wedging the pole against my face for stability, trying to ignore the water soaking up my trousers I unsteadily waved my camera around trying to keep the rain off the lens and took some photos.
I imagine it must have been a welcome site after crawling up the valley in a coach on a cold, windy night on the way to Huddersfield or Manchester. Shame the last warm fire to burn in it took out the roof and all the interior. The windows used to be painted white…
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