Broughton Mills...

I’m sitting outside the Blacksmith’s Arms in Broughton Mills, which sounds like it should be in Calderdale, West Yorkshire, wedged between Mytholmroyd and Hebden Bridge. There should be smoke-blackened mills, and chimneys, and rows of terraced houses. But no… Broughton Mills is an idyllic little spot, so compact, so secluded, that you could drive past without noticing anything except a rather appealing pub. Anyway, you’d probably be lost, and looking for directions.

Broughton Mills isn’t really on the way to anywhere. The gated road to the north delivers you into the Duddon Valley; the road south leads to Broughton, which, for the people who live round here, in the Lickle Valley (yes, really), is ‘town’. In a few minutes I’m meeting a fellow writer who has found a new career, post-retirement, as a chronicler of life in Broughton Mills over the last 80-odd years. His three memoires, published locally, are both funny and true; volume four - Whisky with Mother - will be out “soon” (when you’re publishing for pleasure, rather than profit, you can watch deadlines come… and go).

The last swallows are circling overhead, before their long flight south. There’s a nip in the air and the nights are drawing in (as I’ve heard on three separate occasions today). Summer’s almost gone…

The author of Whisky with Mother, hard at work...