Welcome to B-List Britain, an exclusive Metro Travel series in which Ben Aitken, the award-winning author of Shitty Breaks, explores unsung cities that are quietly brilliant.
The aim is simple: to seek out the good stuff, uncover hidden gems, and demonstrate that anywhere (like anyone) can be interesting, if approached with the right attitude.
This week we’re in Preston…
Let me put Preston in its place.
Manchester, Liverpool and Blackpool are in the vicinity, the River Ribble is to the south, the Forest of Bowland is to the east, and the Lake District is about an hour north, assuming a speed of 40mph.
Now let me fill you in.
The Lancashire city has won national titles for least sun and most rain; is the birthplace of the industrial revolution (or one of them); and is famous for giving the world Andrew Flintoff and the butter pie, though not in that order.
On leaving the railway station, I proceeded to Preston’s cultural centrepiece, recently reopened after a significant glow-up.
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At once a museum, gallery and library, The Harris initially opened in 1893, and was done, for a change, in the neoclassical style.
On the front of the building, atop a row of tall columns, sits a rather impressive pediment, which is decorated with stony versions of Zarathustra, Aristotle and Plato, all of whom were local.
I couldn’t resist having a look at Preston Bus Station, having been told it’s one of a kind.
The massive 1960s erection has the look of a battleship, with its curved concrete balconies that stretch on and on almost out of eyeshot.
It is the sort of bus station where you don’t want your bus to come, because you’re happy where you are. (Which is a sentiment unlikely to hold in the event of delays longer than fifteen minutes.)
Not far from the bus station, in front of Preston’s indoor market, is a sculpture of Wallace and Gromit, the animated creations of local lad Nick Park.
The sculpture went up in 2021, and has Gromit on a bench reading the paper, with Wallace nearby giving a big thumbs.
It’s a cracking addition, if I’m honest, and to those who question its utility, let me say this – it is quite possible to sit next to Gromit on that bench and read over his shoulder.
Last month, the Harris had to restrict access to a W&G exhibition after visitors were left queuing for hours over the Christmas holidays.
The lads have still got it.
My accommodation – Winckley Stays Hotel – was just off Winckley Square, a gorgeous Georgian arrangement the equal of any such square in the country.
My room was a cracker. If it had to be compared to a celebrity, it would be Claudia Winkleman – unquestionably classy but with the common touch.
Keir Starmer is a Travelodge room, in case you were wondering.
That evening, after dining at a backstreet Cantonese joint called Roasta (which scored well with Jay Rayner, restaurant critic for the Financial Times), I went to Club 3000 Bingo on New Hall Lane.
The main hall was huge. It looked ready for a colossal speed dating convention. The whole of East Lancs could chat itself up here.
The lady across the aisle from me was certainly worth chatting to.
She could tell I was miffed by the number of coupons I’d been issued, so kindly leant across the aisle to whisper the significance of each.
During a break in proceedings, she even led me across to see the prizes, which were stacked on the other side of the hall. When we got there, about an hour later, I was a bit underwhelmed, to be honest.
It was a mountain of Bisto gravy boats.
Next up was a cosy craft beer joint called Plug and Taps, where I ordered a pint of something by Northern Monk, then wandered around looking at the various artworks on display.
Among them was a black-and-white photograph of a footballer making a tackle on a waterlogged pitch.
It was Tom Finney, considered one of the greats of English football. The Preston Plumber they called him.
Unlocked defences at the weekend, unblocked toilets during the week.
Finney fought in WWII, never got booked, and retired at the age of 38 owing to a persistent groin problem, the latter detail being the only one I could relate to.
I had breakfast the next morning at a place called Rise, which was worth getting up for.
After seeing off a portion of Nutella French Toast and a side of halloumi (don’t judge), it was time to get on my bike. I picked up an e-bike from a hire shop by the railway station, then proceeded to the beginning of The Guild Wheel, a 20-mile cycle and walkway that hugs the city.
It was some starting line: Avenham Park must be one of the best-looking parks in the country.
I pedalled happily between an avenue of riverside trees until I arrived at Walton Bridge – four hundred years late for an almighty scrap.
Oliver Cromwell’s victory on this bridge, during the Battle of Preston in 1648, brought the English Civil War to a close and sealed the death warrant of Charles I.
I continued around The Wheel until I reached a nature reserve called Brockholes, which offers two hundred acres of hides and trails, for spotting ospreys and otters and bitterns and lapwings.
There have been some rare sightings here, I was told. A shaggy-crested belted kingfisher was spotted once, for example.
The bird had been due in the Caribbean but wound up in Preston. A storm is believed to have diverted the kingfisher, though I like to think it just fancied a change.
I carried on cycling until I got to the top of Boilton Wood, where I asked a walker for directions to the train station, knowing I hadn’t got time to do the whole lap.
They said the quickest route was through the Moor Nook estate, but they didn’t fancy my chances. They reckoned I’d do well to get through in one piece.
By no means can I commend every aspect of the Moor Nook estate, but I got through without fuss, and the chippy on Pope Lane was a belter.
Despite being short of time, I popped in for a chip barmcake, and it was lush – and only £2.80. Pound for pound, it was up there with anything I’d eaten for months.
When I finally got to the station, I was delighted to discover that I’d missed my train by about forty-five seconds.
Serves me right. I shouldn’t have been so indulgent. I knew that nature reserve was one stop too many…
Ben Aitken is the author of Shitty Breaks: A Celebration of Unsung Cities.
Next week, we’re in Wolverhampton.