Red rose cheeks on jaunt over border for jolly day

IT’S not far from Cross Hills into Lancashire. Six miles, at most, over the top of Pennine foothills.

But it’s another world. They talk different in Laneshawbridge and Trawden, even though they’re just over the border.

The white and red rose tribes probably didn’t mix much until the 19th century turnpike was built to connect Yorkshire with the old market town of Colne.

A narrow lane that previously wound through hilly farmland was replaced by the A6068 that carries heavy traffic today, a rat-run for lorries.

Still, it’s the best way to get over to the Emmott Arms in Laneshawbridge for an early Christmas drink with three other musketeers. Trev, Mick and Clifford.

Emmott is big round here, or was. A

Lancashire textile magnate, Liberal politician and a minister in the First World War coalition government, he championed profit-sharing with the workers.

His name now adorns a cracking pub, but I doubt if this “typically cautious, efficient, public spirited and hard-working Lancashire businessman” (according to one obituary) would have leaned on its counter, as we did.

From the pumps I chose Top Dog from Oscars brewery, in Nelson. The snarling logo on the clip looked like an advert for dangerous canines, but you can’t have everything. On through winding back roads, with Pendle Hill, home of the witches, in the distance to the Hare and Hounds, a Thwaites house, in Foulridge for a last hurrah with lawyer John.

A spirited discussion ensued about how to boil an egg. I learned you should shake eggs to centre-gravitate the yolk.

A jolly afternoon in good company. I should get out more.