Tanya Aldred goes back to the Lancashire club graced by Sobers
The tram from the city rattles through Prestwich, Besses o’ th’ Barn and Whitefield to where the accents start to lose their twang and creep towards Lancashire burr.
It is late May and the sun scorches off the pavement. Sunday afternoon drinkers in good cheer spill out of the pub and two men clip along the road in pony and traps. The backstreets are quiet, lazy with shadows; a woman has pulled out a fold-up chair and is watching two children kick a football, to and fro.
Off the main road and a little way up...
