I was really 
enjoying my train trips, though I found the booking and ticket retention a bit stressful. My trip to Accrington gave me an opportunity to see the changes in architecture and environment. The beautiful terraced houses I had seen in Bath turned into row upon row of red-roofed terraced houses, which from a distance had quite a depressing look about them, as there were no trees or variation of building style (1st photo). Another change I noticed as I got further North was that the large franchises and chain stores became more obvious. In small towns places like Starbucks and Subway were fairly low key, but regulations seemed less restrictive further north, and more signs appeared everywhere. I gradually realised that English roads were not littered with bill-boards like the New Zealand roads are, which is why they look more attractive. In New Zealand, a car journey is somewhat akin to reading a magazine of advertisements, unless of course one is in Glenorchy, which has few bill-boards. Glenda Fryer and her team tried to tidy up Auckland and remove some of the signs, but the business people complained that no-one would find them, so the signs stayed. It's hard to find the business for the signs now - a sort of wood and trees phenomenon I suppose. 
On arrival at Accrington I wandered up and down the main street until I found the tourist information office, which I assumed would advise me on the right place to stay. There were brochures, but no staff, and the brochures sold tours, not advice on accommodation. So I wandered up and down again, asking questions at likely looking places, until I settled on a bed and breakfast called 
Colney House (2nd photo), opposite 261 Blackburn Road (3rd photo), where my great grandfather, John Lonsdale once lived. He was born in Clayton-leMoors, just down the road, and at the time he was living in Blackburn Road (1881), my great grandmother lived in the Adelphi Hotel, about 10 minutes away by foot. The house I stayed in was apparently built for George IV's mistress, who must have been very fit, and the stairs were steep and narrow, and the building was several stories high. Perhaps that’s why she was so popular with the king, as she must have had lovely muscular legs. Once I had lugged my two heavy bags up the stairs (the landlady had a bad back….) I set out to enjoy my afternoon.
Accrington is a mill town, but the mills seem to have closed. As some of my ancestors were weavers and cotton workers, I wandered around the outside of one or two, wondering if they walked the same streets a century earlier. Many streets had small lanes behind them, similar to those I saw in Vancouver, where Russell and Jane live when they're not on their boat (ref Poulston Antigua blog!). The lanes were dirty and littered with beer cans, bottles, cigarette packets, dried up sludgy stuff, and what seemed to be household rubbish (4th photo). No doubt I was looking at the 2008 version of what my ancestors saw a century ago when they passed this way. I bet my grandmother had to pick up her skirts to keep the hems clean, as washing in those days must have been a real drag – although now I think about it, they did have a servant, so perhaps it wasn’t 
granny’s drag, but the servant’s. I noticed a sign pointing to Clayton-le-Moors, just a mile or so down the road, so I followed it, but I was getting tired, having already walked several miles. I had come across some churches, but the town being full of Moslems, two were actually up for sale (5th photo, but recently removed for not being interesting enough). I took a photograph as evidence of my trip and observations. I also found the Adelphi Hotel (6th photo) where my great grandmother, Annie Baron lived, in the 1881 census. She was with her half brother and sister, Bridge and Martha Baron, and Bridege's son, Bridge junior. The girl working in the bar didn't know my family. She had studs in her eyebrows and around her face, and her hair was a pretty green, similar to the colour of my brother’s budgerigar, Peter. He’s 
dead now (Peter, not my brother), this being some 45 years ago. She had sort of Rastafarian hair, and was well decorated with brightly coloured clothes. I asked if I could see upstairs, explaining my claim on the hotel, but she was unimpressed, and refused my request. I walked about the bar a bit, and bought gin for old times’ sake (I bet my ancestors drank gin there). Everything was quite old – a sort of red quilted seating around dark tables that were very sticky. I guess the barmaid was kept busy enough decorating herself, without having to clean the tables as well. I took several photos, including one of her.
The walk to Clayton-le-Moors took me up a hill that had a decent looking pub at the top, so I stopped for a glass of wine, some tacos, and a salad. The Mexican food confused my sense of time and place – it all felt very odd. Except brief conversations with the landlady, the barmaid, and the waiter, all of this was conducted in silence, which allowed my imagination to run freely, which I enjoyed. I found my way to Clayton-le Moors and explored yet another churchyard, hoping for some evidence of my family, but found none. By this time I was well and truly stuffed, so took a bus back to town and returned to Blackburn Road. I took some photos of 261, as well as the Pakistani barber who now worked there. Although I wanted to go upstairs, not being familiar with Pakistani barbers’ habits, I decided not to ask. I was pleased to get to bed.
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