A strong and independent spot, not much given to pretension
What’s going for it? Last time I popped into Glossop, five years ago, it was coming of age as a Nu Mill Town, following in the wake of Todmorden, Ramsbottom and, of course, Hebden Bridge, the kind of place increasingly inhabited by those Manchester commuters partial to BBC 6 Music, craft beer and luxuriant beards, who are not quite ready to purchase beard oil, that being the stuff of the devil (or at least, parts of east London). A recent fly past confirmed the trend. A damn good night can be had at the Crystal Ballroom. There is a plant-based deli. I found no beard oil. The community is fierce (in a good way) and friendly, instigators of quirky nightspots, theatres, a club-for-every-proclivity, fine markets and microbreweries; and you could never be bored with the Peak District and its rambling treats at the edge of town. It is a strong and independent spot, not much given to pretension, just as it was when the town first formed in the industrial revolution 250 years ago. The melancholic (in a good way) milltown landscape, love it or hate it, is still there, dripping under the sou’westerlies – all stone-built nonconformist chapels, mills, workers’ cottages and the like, only filled not with calico these days, but cocktails.
The case against Rain, rain, go away, go away. Please. Just occasionally. Traffic can be a big problem. A touch on the dour side: embrace the drizzle, adore the grey.
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