The White Horse was my dad’s
local pub, at the top of our road, which meant I rarely went in it, at first
because I was under age, then because I found the draught Boddington’s beer unsuited
to my immature taste; today to commemorate a year since his passing I called in
while visiting Salford and found the exterior unchanged, and inside the old
warren of separate drinking rooms still discernable, despite some opening out
of the area, along with a few remnants of the old place thankfully retained as ‘period
features’, but the plan to toast the old man with a pint of Boddington’s was
scuppered as Greene King are now in residence so I had to make do (no hardship)
with Doombar instead.
No comments:
Post a Comment