Run of the Mill

The Bobbin Mill
The Bobbin Mill
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Stepping over the threshold of The Bobbin Mill yours truly was immediately gripped by the sure and certain knowledge this would be once in a lifetime experience.

Not hard to say why. Harder, in truth, to work out precisely why I decided to stop by there to begin with.

After all, The Bobbin Mill sits just on the cusp of Buckshaw Village, comfortably my least favourite blob of conurbation this side of A N Other randomly selected newtown. A village in mocking name only, one which (IMHO) could have been plucked wholesale from the imagination of JG Ballard, had that great seer of dystopia yet to come been concerned with developments South Ribble way.

Although several friends and associates now call this sprawling new-built void ‘home’, it remains a place I care not to visit often or, indeed, at all if that can be arranged. Best seen on the hoof, fast as is permissible, ideally from a plane.

So why pop-in The Bobbin?

Call it a spirit of adventure. Or, more accurately, let’s just say I was in the vicinity and thought ‘how bad can it be’?

Not very, was the answer. Not very anything. Beyond ‘good’ or ‘bad’, into the realm of ‘meah’...

Like the bland glass and steel corporate architecture hemming in this pub on three sides character was entirely lacking.

A clean, functional ‘pub’ type experience, albeit an entirely superficial one – as the couple of casks I sampled ably confirmed.

The contents of neither glass was anything much to write home about, although neither was sufficiently bad to merit approaching the bar to bandy angry words.

A Jennings Lakeland Stunner which I’d expected to be floral, tangy and bitter packed all the wallop of a pint of Corporation Pop.

A Cumberland Ale from that same brewery was similarly...

Not quite in the room.

Felt moved to try some food too, and although this bit of the paper is intended to be solely concerned with matters fluid, let’s just say there is a world of difference between owning a rotissomat and knowing what to do with one.

Stepping back over the threshold of The Bobbin Mill was a step in the right direction.