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The Westgate Run

from Here There Be Demons by The Crows Of Albion

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about

I started drinking in the pubs of Wakefield when I was 16. The rites of passage was, and still is, to do the Westgate Run – a walk, up hill, from the bottom, at the Redoubt, to the top at the Black Rock (under the shadow of Wakefield Cathedral). There used to be about 20 pubs in the ‘Run’ the wise ‘Runners’ had a half in each – but the demons always demanded a pint…

lyrics

The Westgate Run.

Upon the Merrie Cities oldest street
when twilight creeps across the Yorkshire sky,
traditionally friends and strangers meet
and let the velvet darkness pass them by.
In pictures from a dim and distant past,
as gaslight spilled from heavy shadowed doors,
to neon tinted bars of Friday last
the sound of liquid laughter gently pours.

CHORUS:
Perhaps these cobbled streets hold no surprise
to those who visit here upon a chance -
but living all my life beneath these skies
I hear the music, soft beneath the dance.
A century or more of stumbling feet
have traced this path from St. Micks to the Rock.
Good spirits open wide the doors to greet
the revellers of Wakefield when they knock.

At seven, sharp, we meet in the Redoubt,
it’s crooked rooms are full of chiming talk.
then on to face our Waterloo and stout
as black as coal, to help us on our walk.
The White Hart next and sawdust ghosts afoot,
stiff, wooden chairs that creak like age old men.
A chimney spills authentic, ancient soot
that trails away in footsteps way back when.

Where Wagon and Horses were tethered tight
we drink and watch the youngsters on the baize -
full heads of hair and eyes a shiny bright,
no blood shot orbs and salt and pepper greys.
The Smiths Arms draws us to a blazing fire
that warms us from the hearth of cosy rooms
until we leave to climb towards the spire,
our breath explodes in will o’ the wisp plumes.

The Swan With Two Necks, changed yet one more time,
its stained glass windows gazing at the mill
forever etched against a sky in grime -
though long gone you can see its outline still.
Henry Boons is next with its straw thatched bar
where trendy student ambience abounds.
The walls are permeated with a tar
of funky, grungy, rocky, poppy sounds.

Under the railway bridge and cross the road,
the red bricked Elephant & Castle looms,
a place where time has permanently slowed
and memories are cobwebbed in the rooms.
Finally, back across the road to find
the Black Horse on the corner of my dreams
of a dim and distant past I left behind
supported from its old, oak timbered beams.

credits

from Here There Be Demons, released September 30, 2015
WORDS: Ian Whiteley
MUSIC: Martin Heaton

license

all rights reserved

tags

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