By Richard Mather
Salford is the rain striking the terraces stacked in brown brick and wind blowing through the Pendleton underpass as you hustle your way to the new Tesco.
It is Neolithic arrowheads extracted from Kersal Moor and poetry nights and whisky at the King’s Arms. It is painted barges on the Bridgewater Canal or a Sunday saunter through Worsley Woods.
Salford is the rink of pink ice outside the town hall at Christmas; the docks transfigured; two fat-breasted pigeons flying over the jagged peaks of St John’s Cathedral on Chapel Street.
It is Mr Engels on foot to The Crescent for a pleasant pint where he will hold forth on the future of the working class and the Irwellian revival of freshwater shrimp.
Of note is tonight’s full frost moon suspended over the Quays, where high rise apartments transform the Salford skyline into a little Manhattan.
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