We met in a pub car-park with a panoramic view, at the top of a long, steep climb up from Littleborough, the White House at Blackstone Edge. As we chatted in the sun, vintage motorcycles on a run zoomed passed us at intervals, as did heroic cyclists, including one woman grinding her way up on a hand-cranked recliner bike - astonishing. Amongst the bikers, cyclists and insane boy racers were sheep.
The Map Twats plus Jack and Rod, the very sociable other poetry fans, drank excellent beer, ate chips, made progressively nastier comments about the errant poet, and I took a few pictures, mostly of a very greedy bee. Rest here.
Did Simon Armitage ever turn up, as pre-arranged with 'his people'. No, he bloody didn't. When it's published, I'll go to a book shop, look up his excuse for that day, then put it back on the shelf, unbought.
Overlooking Littleborough and Rochdale
